#she had to bring her own boom box

[tumblemumbler]

I wonder where the baton twirling little girl from Rain King is now. I wonder if she still twirls batons. I wonder if she shows people the episode now and then, or uses it as a “fun fact” in ice breakers or whatever.

I really weirdly identified with that baton twirler. I’ve done that performance, the strange and inappropriate guest performer for a small group that couldn’t care less. It’s a really bizarre vibe.

Hope you’re having a great life baton girl-now-woman.

[safination]

Partners in Death...and Life.

Part I: Radio's not dead

| Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn’t Explain Himself. | Masterlist| ao3 Pairings: Alastor x wife!reader Tags: fem! reader, established relationship, human!alastor, hopefully not but just in case ooc!alastor (I'm trying my best to keep him as canon as possible) acroace!alastor

"Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow. You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.” “Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?” You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” [Or after a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping . . . *checks notes* . . . the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason.]

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You pass the tissue box—the third one already.

Your patient blows his nose, rubbing snot off his snout. He has to stretch his arms to reach his nose. Alligators are known for their long snouts. His nostrils flare when he sniffles.

Used tissue is discarded on the pastel-pink floor despite a pastel-pink trashcan stationed by his webbed feet. It’s been the same pattern for the last fifteen-minutes. Tissue, Sneeze. Floor.

“—and I have this . . . uh . . . like this real bad itch on my eye. I keep rubbing and rubbing but it doesn’t do shit! My eyesight’s gotten worse—It’s already fucked up but this is just different. My roommate hissed at me about getting blood all-over the carpet floors if I kept scratching my scales. Oh. Oh! I’ve been snee—achew!” Alligator snot lands on the pastel-pink floors of the clinic.

Your eyes twitch.

He takes another tissue and waves it around his head. “The top of my head is killing me. Ya’know where that is right?” He blows his nose. “It’s right here,” he says, inching his head closer to you. “The last nurse I went to was blind as a bat! Literally, she had the wings and everything. It was kinda hot.”

“I’m well aware of the location of your head,” you say. “You can lean back now.”

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Pastel pink floor.

Underneath the mix of feathers and hair strands, the bustling of the waiting room catches your ears. Someone curses, booming and violent at another waiting patient. A cough, a sigh, a barf. Painful curses erupt after that. You bring a hand to your ears, wincing as your eardrum ring. Pentagon City’s best and biggest hospital needs better doors, but those lazy sloth fuckers at the top invested at the first material they found.

The alligator sneezes into another tissue. He flicks it with his wrist, and it hits the pastel-pink wallpaper adorned with closed eyes. Maybe Belphegor should be the sin of Pride instead, considering all items are covered in her symbol.

“I really feel like t’was those exterminators ya’know?”

You do not, in fact, know. Half of what this young man says is incomprehensible.

His snout sways left to right when he shakes his head. “It’s only my second one, and this was a close call, and uh . . . well, ever since then I’ve been like this. One even got to my roommate. “

You hum, leaning back on your chair. You should petition to for thicker doors. And while you’re at it, better interior design, and better paint—something that isn’t pastel pink.

“Ugh, and it’s so not cool that this new roommate of mine’s been shedding since the day they moved in,” he says.  “Speaking of shedding, do you think it’s because of those exterminators? Do you think they like spread some sort of weird pollen to make us sick? They’re totally the type to do that.”

You take your pen—your pastel-fucking-pink pen—and poke his alligator sinuses.

Hell does have its own brand of humor. You gave your 20s to studying human anatomy, only to die and find yourself with the need to re-learn the boring part of biology.  (Two books on reptiles, four on mammals, and fifteen on sea creatures.)

“YEOWCH!” His teeth stick out again. You do not know what this means.  “What kind of nurse ar—“

“Doctor.”

“—you? That’s not the top of my head!”

You push back on of the feathers on your head. “Your roommate ‘hissed’ at you? And they’ve been shedding fur for two weeks now.?

“Yeah . . . ?”

You stare at him. “Have you ever considered that you’re allergic to your roommate?”

“Ooooooooooh,” he says. ‘Yeah, I was allergic to cats back when I was alive.”

You grab your (pastel-fucking-pink) prescription pad from the desk drawer. “Control it with some antihistamine. Four pills every 12 hours.”

His teeth start showing. You’re not sure if he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell. “Pills, really?”

You toss what you were writing into the massive pile of germs, mucus, and tissue. “I can give you a nasal spray. I’ll flush the mucus then insert a spray that prevents build-up,” you say. “They last for two weeks and then you’ll need to come back.”

He grabs the last tissue from the box. It still lands on your floor. “Ma’am nurse, do you have any more of this?”

You sigh and reach for a fourth box of tissue. “It’s doctor,” you say. “We keep nasal sprays here in the clinic. I’ll just grab one and you’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

“No can do,” he says. “Before I died, my coach told me to stay away from that non-organic shit. It’ll mess us up real bad apparently. All those steroids.”

“You have phencyclidine sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Pheny—what?”

“ . . . Angel Dust.”

“The porn star?”

“The drug. You have drugs sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Come on, nurse—”

Threads erupt from your fingers. It snakes around his wrist, coiling and twisting.

He jerks his arm away and cries out when you tighten your hold. Your threads wrap around his legs. It pulls against his waist. Magic binds his arms, and tightens around every joint he owns.

You stop, only when the alligator struggles, trashing against the clinic chair.  His teeth bare and he snaps at whatever he can reach. You tug on one of the thousands of strings digging into his skin. His jaw snaps shut, and it will stay shut. Another tug and his back stretches to straighten. You move your fingers as if a piano laid before you, and he sits up like a good puppet.

Another month of clinic dury will be your punishment if those sloth from down below are lucid enough to do their jobs.Sadly, killing this idiot would have you suspended for three months.

“I am a doctor,” you tell him. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

The tension on your strings marks even the few scales scattered on his body. He’s a real idiot if he continues to struggle.

Delicate movements of your fingers bring him forward, his back still strained, and tilt his snout at a forty-five-degree angle.

Your threads elongate as you move toward the clinic drawers. It loosens around you, careful at keeping you able to move freely. It’s one of the handier parts of your magic. You shake your hands and the threads detach. It sticks to the floor to keep the alligator as your puppet. You scrub your hands thoroughly before taking the nasal spray and filling with with distilled water.

You place on nitrite gloves. It’s always best when dealing with bodily substances such as mucus.

You place a pan underneath and jam the tube up his nostrils, hosing his sinuses with water. The tension of his binding keeps him still. (If you ignore his whining, then that’s your business. The brawl you heard from the waiting room drowned it all out anyway.) He starts breathing better when all the snot flushes to the pan.

“Finished,” you say with satisfaction. You grab your prescription pad and write one for a nasal spray. “I cleared the mucus buildup so you shouldn’t feel any more headaches. The spray will keep your nose clear for as long as you use it. Come back if you start to feel any discomfort. For the rashes just get cream.” You point at the pastel pink door. “The exit’s right there.”

The threads dissolve in the air. He rubs his wrist, trying to soothe the red marks that your strings bring. You hand him the signed prescription.

He doesn’t close the door on his way out.

The broom and dustpan are hidden in one of the taller cabinets—pastel-pink like everything else in the room.

(Well, not everything. The radio sitting on the corner of the counter gives a splash of red into the room.)

You sweep the tissues into the dustpan. Your control over your strings is much more proficient when living beings are involved. Inanimate objects whip around when you use your magic on them, and radios have been difficult to purchase recently. It’s more convenient to clean using your own hands.

“Tagatha,” you call out when the floor is clean. “You can bring in the next one in.”

Silence is your reply.

“Tagatha?”

Your ears quirk. The noises are faint—an occasional cough, silent weeping, and muted voices coming from the television. You peek out the door, eyeing the crowd formed around the corner of the hall where a pAstel-pInK television mounts on the wall.

The door closes with a faint click. You sink into the cushions of the office chair. Vox’s yapping bore you. It was probably some man-child debate about the new extermination date.

Although . . . those serialized dramas he produces, sadly, are interesting enough to be consumed. If asked for your honest opinion, you’d tell them that they were a hot pile of smelly garbage, but you like to leave it playing mindlessly in the background.

Your husband will throw the television out the window the first chance he’ll get.

Too bad he’s occupied.

You grab a piece of paper from the drawer. Management is forcing you to write a thousand-word formal apology. There are about three-hundred words left to write.

Getting caught dissecting the dead bodies from the morgue is a mistake that won’t be repeated. One dead body and suddenly those lazy fuckers have diligence weaved into their DNA.

The body was already dead, and it’s not every day a chance to poke around a chimera’s entrails appears.

The sinner would contribute to something meaningful at least. You’re stuck on clinic duty until you dot your last sentence, and not a moment before

The coffee’s cold now, but consumable.

You reach across the desk, feeling for the knob of the radio. You twist until you feel the clink. Music fills the air—the same twenty-five songs on a loop. You stare at the radio for a moment. Just . . . a small . . . single moment.

 . . . On your kitchen counter, that second cup of coffee should be cold by now. It’s always cold when you trudge through the door. It’s been cold and untouched for years.

Yet, without fail, that second cup you brew will always be waiting for its owner.

“Salutations!” You snap your head to the radio. “Good to be back on the air.”

Huh? The feather on your hair preens. You swipe the radio, your hold on it feather-light.  You turn the knob responsible for volume. The static noise stings your eardrums.

“—ile since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!”

Murmurs erupt outside your door. You blink and find yourself slamming it open. One foot after another, one step after the other, brings you closer to the television. Your shoulder throbs when you bump into someone, but you keep pushing until you see Vox and his tacky suit enlarged on the screen.

“What a dated voice!”

A reply comes from the radio. “Instead of a clout-chasin’ mediocre video podcast.”

Your feather rises higher. Laughter escapes your lips, it leaves a dry taste. That . . . that ṁ̵̭͔̲̙̦͎̝̜̲̠͙͇̂̏̃̐̂̓̊̂̕̕o̴̢̭̝̙̤̬͚͐̅͗̌̇̂̌̕ţ̷̛̝̂̿h̶̯̟̙̲̘̟̟͙͔̔̋͊̋̿̐͘͜͜ę̶̗̰͔̫͔̗̝̘̻̰̓̓̈̊͜r̵̨̂̏f̶͖̻̱̺͕̹̫̭̠̚u̸̬̺̯̟̦͖̅̂́́̌̚͝ć̴̖͙̰͈͕̉͌̈́́̈̔̀̉̍́͜͠ḳ̴̨̧̗̫̗͖̞̟̑͌̂̀̈́̀͆͒ę̷̛͓̼̟͍̆̆́͆̾͛͝r̵̹̮̤͓̗̹̈́̎̉͌̾͌̏͑̋̚͝.

“Doctor!” Tagatha screeches when she spots you. “I am so sorry. I’ll bring in the next one right away!”

Your eyes are trapped by the screen and your ears by the radio. “It’s alrig—”

Tagatha grabs the closest person to her and shoves you back into the clinic. The door slams shut just as everything goes dark and silent. (Well, it’s not completely dark, once your eyes adjust you can still see as if the lights were open. Another small perk to this body). Your radio, along with the power, stopped working.

“Oh my!” Your new patient bleats.

“We have generators,” you find yourself saying. “I’m sure the power will come on in a minute.”

The cushions of the chair do little to ease your nerves. You pat your hair, trying to get it in control. A pile of feathers starts forming on the PASTEL-FUCKING PINK FLOORS. T̴̹̜͇̅̅͗͜H̶̰̗̄Ơ̶̡̡̻̗͖̋̎̓̓S̴̨͉̝̻͋̽̆́͆Ẹ̸̡̢͐͐͠ ̷̨͚̞̙̀͒̆̆͊Ŭ̵͕̲̪͇͓͐̚G̷̹̝̦̬͊͒Ḷ̶̭͓̎̏̈͘Y̶͇̟̍̉̚ ̷̟͎͕̞͂͑̂̇À̶͉̍̄̈̚S̸͖̖͕͑̏͛̈́S̶͚̤̼̯̀ ̶̻͆P̷̬̝̉Ä̵͕́͊̌S̸̢͍̆̓͝Ṫ̸͖̲̠̾̉͜͝E̷̺͆L̷͖̏͐́͝ ̶̛̟̽͝P̷̪̔͜I̴̹̥̹͖̮͒́̏͘N̸̳̙̼̾̆̿Ķ̶̟̞̜̉͊̓̂̚ ̵͈̬̃̿̄̈́̋F̵̨̨̼̫̘͘L̸̙̠͎̓̆́O̷̧̘͚͉̤̓O̷̤̟̱̼̤͋̍͐R̷̰̝̓͌̌Ș̵̲̝̈́ “Excuse me?” You will paint this room red with the blood of management.  You tap your foot again, and again, and again. “ . . .Doctor?”

Your neck snaps in her direction, eyes wide and staring.

“The . . . uh . . . the lights are back.”

You blink at your patient—huh, she’s a goat. “I apologize,” you say, smiling. “Please, tell me, what brings you here in this hellish afternoon.”

She holds up her bleeding arm. “It’s been like this since the extermination,” she explains. “Some angle got me. Luckily, I was able to run off before I was finished. I thought it would heal on its own like it usually does but it just hasn’t. It keeps bleeding.”

“Well, angel-induced injuries are my specialty,” you say. Tucked away to the side, a mirror hangs. You catch your reflection, and you blow your hair away from your vision, your red sclerae “This will cost you. Injuries caused by angels are . . . difficult to stitch, but not impossible—not for me at least.”

“Oh, yes.” She bleats one more “Dear God, where are my manners? I’m sorry can I ask for your name?”

Your smile widens. “Of course. I’m—"

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“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow.

You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.”

“Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?”

You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” He steps closer to take a peek. You watch him as his eyes gloss over your matches then your needle driver, then the alcohol lamp. His smile wobbles when he lands on the syringe.

You move the tray, dropping it down on the little cart by the examination chair.

“There’s no need to worry.” You beam at him. “I have the steadiest hands in this city.”

“Hmmmm,” he says. “You must be the other doctor then.”

“Not at all.” You point to your uniform, where the initial ‘NP’ is embroidered next to your name. “Just the nurse practitioner.”

He takes a closer look and reads your name. “Then I have no reason to fret. None at all! In my experience, doctors usually have their noses buried in their books. It’s the nurses that actually get the hands-on experience.” Alastor’s hands move when he talks. “What’s such a talented practitioner doing in such a dinged-up clinic?”

“Management caught me in the morgue dissecting the dead—It’s how I practice my stitches.”

“Really, now?”

You bark a laugh. “Not at all—I’m far too smart to get caught.”

“A witty sense of humor and a steady hand! I am in good hands, indeed.”

You take a seat on the rolling stool. “Yes, yes,” you say, waving your wrist. “You make fine compliments, Sir. I’ll be sure to be extra gentle.” You point towards the examination chair. “But, please hurry to the chair. You’re dripping blood on my floor.”

Alastor glances down. His eyebrows furrow as he glares at where the blood seeps from his sleeve . . . almost . . . almost as if he’s angry. “My apologies,” he says, allowing his blood to drip to the floor.

Alastor shrugs off his coat. It’s rare to see such a dark red—only a few choose such a color. You hum. Alastor is a well-dressed gentleman. Lovely. Those are your favorite kind. He drapes his coat over the spare chair, ignoring the coat racks the clinic provides.

You turn away and wheel yourself closer to one of the drawers on the counter. It takes two attempts until you find the stash of sterile gloves. “Take your seat when you’re ready,” you say. “I’ll take a look once you are.” You place the gloves on the little green cart, right next to your tray.

Alastor takes his seat, landing with an audible ‘humph’. He smiles at you, sleeves rolled and arm ready. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You hold your palm out. “May I?”

His smile wobbles—it’s a small change in expression that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking. “Of course.”

Along his forearm, a long and sharp cut wounds him. The sight of grime that covers the opened abrasions makes you inwardly cringe. You need to clean these as soon as possible. “Why was this not checked sooner?” You rest his hands on the armrest and use your foot to bring the cart closer. “This looks old, and not at all like a freshly deep cut. I prefer it when patients come to me with fresh wounds.”

You grab a bowl with distilled water and pour in a sterile solution. “I assumed it would heal on its own,” he tells you. “It was quite a surprise when it did not.”

“I need to clean this before you die of infection.” You dip his arm into the bowl. He remains silent, but you feel the tension of his muscles under your fingers. “Hopefully there will be no next time, but just in case, next time, please don’t wait a month.”

He laughs, and there, you faintly see it—a twitch in his eye. “It was only a week actually.”

You smile to yourself. “I’d prefer it if it was only a few hours.” You dry his arm with a soft towel, his arm still tensed underneath your touch. “There, much better.”  You release your hold to go to a shelf filled with different labeled vials and select the one you need. With the clean syringe, you draw the contents of the vial. “You’ll feel a bit of a pinch,” you say. You tap its side. “It’s morphine— wouldn’t want you screaming and writhing”

You study his face for a second. There’s just that same dismissively polite smile.

“You can look away if you wish,” you tell him. “It’s why we pin such . . . er . . .interesting decorations around. . . . May I?”

You feel it again when Alastor inches his arm closer. His muscles tense under your touch. It’s almost as if he wishes to pull away. You keep your hold feather-light, but firm.

“Are you a hunter by any chance?” you ask. You don’t prick him—not yet. Not when tension coils in your hold.

“You could describe it that way,” he says, chuckling like he’s told a humorous joke. (You don’t understand why.)

“I figured you were.”

Alastor slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You inject the morphine into his skin, right inside the soft pink tissue. Good. Alastor relaxes when he speaks, it seems. “I do love a good hunt,” he says. “How ever did you know.”

You release your hold and discard the syringe. “Your hands are rough,” you tell him. “And hunters always have this silly notion that injuries magically heal given enough time—along with farmers, actually. Although, farmers are usually much more deluded.”

He flashes that same polite smile. “I'm guessing you’re not a hunter then?”

“How ever did you know?”

You watch his eyes flicker to your palms as you re-arrange the needles. “Delicate hands.”

You flash the same polite smile right back at him. You take a match, and light the alcohol lamp.

Soap spreads all over your palms and up your arm as you scrub your hands. You slip your hands into the sterilized gloves, careful not to contaminate the surface. “I’ll begin now.”

Alastor hums in reply.

You take a scapple and pass it over the flame. You poke him, lightly, but he doesn’t react. Satisfied, you cut back fibrous tissue underneath the skin. You replace the scapple with a needle driver. There was a quiet click when you pinch the tiny curved needle. You pass it over the flame as well. “Can you do me a favor? Can you tell me how many stars are on that wall over there?

Alastor turns to look at you, but you block his eyes with your palm, shielding him from your stiches.

“The wall isn’t over here.”

“I assure you, I’m not afraid of a silly needle.”

“I’m sure you are,” you say. “However, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. The last three people who said that took one look and started squirming. One even fainted. It makes your life miserable, and my job harder.

He counts.

“Out loud please.”

He does as he’s told, rather reluctantly.

Hands steady and determination set, you pierce the soft pink tissue with your needle The tissue nearest to the surface is always delicate. You’re certain not to catch any fat in your suture, for fat dies, and a loose stitch is useless. “Well, isn’t this fun!” he says. “I really feel nothing.”

Your concentration does not break. “I don’t remember there only being twenty-six stars. I’m positive there are more.”

“Why is someone as talented as you only a nurse practitioner?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a nurse,” you reply, tugging on the needle. “Well . . .we . . . we certainly could be paid more.”

“Why not become an actual doctor then?”

“My father couldn’t afford it. He wouldn’t send me . . . and . . . hmm.” You smoothly pull the suture thread and begin the next stitch. “And I enjoy this.”

He looks down at you. “Is this all you’ll be satisfied with?”

You focus back on your stitching, hiding your glare. You bring your needle underneath the flesh, making sure to catch the soft tissue. You’re doing an uncommon stitch, but it would be a shame to leave a scar. “You sound familiar.”

You pause to look at him, His smile brightens, and it actually looks like a genuine elated smile. “Why, I’m a radio broadcaster. You might have heard me there.”

“Oh yes,” you hum, turning back to your stitching. “Alastor . . . I remember now. The ladies and I listen to your broadcast as we do our crafts.”

“Knitting?”

“I personally prefer embroidery,” you say. “I get to practice my stitching and make beautiful art.” You pull the thread and begin a new one, stitching his skin like they were shoe laces. “You’re quite the humorous gentleman, I must say, and quite a lovely taste in music. We enjoy your broadcast very much”

“Do you have any of your artworks here?” he asks you. “I would be eager to see them.”

“Maybe next time.” You tug the suture, and his laceration snaps to a close. You tie a knot and snip the end. “Unfortunately, I’ve finished your stitches.”

“Next time then.”

You discard your gloves and go back to the shelf with the vials. You fill up another syringe. You jam the needle into his skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to scare him a bit. “To prevent infection.”

He jerks away from you. “What happened to that gentle touch of yours?”

“It’s still a sharp object, Sir. They tend to hurt.” You smirk and carefully clean the remaining blood on the skin around the sutured wound. You take a bandage from your cart and begin wrapping it around his forearm, covering your sutures. “Don’t forget to drink your pills every 8 hours, with a meal in your stomach, preferably. Replace the dressing every three days. You can come back here or if you’re able to do so, you can change them yourself. Any by the good God, please, visit the nearest hospital should this incident repeat.”

Alastor slides off the examination chair. He grabs his coat as if you didn’t just stitch him close. You start packing when you notice him fixing his bow tie, and smoothing his hair. Huh . . .There’s blood on his coat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Like he’s used to having it there. Like it’s just something he’s learned to live with. “You were wrong by the way.”

“Pardon?”

“It was quite the pleasure to meet you.”

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Next Part |Part 2: Radio Will be Dead if He Doesn't Explain Himself| Hello, welcome to the hell that's been plaguing my head. In case you didn't know Belphegor is the ruler of the sloth ring, and she seems to be in charge of medical-related stuff in Hell. I have the story mostly plotted out, it's just a matter of writing it down. If you have any questions, ask away

[lemoncrushh]

Her Album

Summary: Harry has finished recording his album, and he wants her to hear it.

Warnings: Angst, lots of feelings

Word Count: 2.9k+

A/N: A short one-shot written in 2019 in first person from Harry's POV. While this is not necessarily a reader fic, the woman's name is never mentioned. This was written before Fine Line was out, so it's pretty wild to think about it now.

The album was done. I’d made a visit to the studio to hear the final mix and then had lunch with Jeffrey and Glenne. As I drove home, I listened to the songs again in the car, deciding not to stop at my house when I got there, but instead to keep going so I could give one last listen straight through.

I’m not sure how I ended up on her street. It used to be automatic, like taking my shoes off before my trousers, or putting the cap back on the toothpaste. I’d driven down her block so many times before, I probably knew it better than my own neighbourhood.

I sat in the car for a long time, staring up at her window. I wasn’t even sure if she was home. I couldn’t tell if a light was on, but it was the middle of the day and that window was her bedroom, so she could’ve been anywhere else inside. I let the album loop around to the first track again, the opening chords hitting me in the chest just like the first time I’d heard them.

I wanted her to hear them too. I wanted her to listen to the melodies and have them bring back the memories that had inspired me to write them. I wanted her to listen to my lyrics and know they were all about her, even the ones that weren’t as obvious. Songs about love and loss. Songs about sex and lust and forbidden fruit. Songs that sounded like they were about something completely different, hidden behind loose meanings and innuendos.

But they were all about her.

I scrolled through my phone and opened the contacts to her name. We hadn’t spoken in weeks, maybe even months. I’d lost count. Being in the studio had helped to heal my broken heart, and my pride, but it certainly hadn’t erased her memory. She was with me every single day, every moment that I worked on a song.

I almost tapped on her name, my thumb grazing over it. But I stopped myself, turning off my phone, and then my engine. Climbing out of the car, I walked around it to the pavement in front of her building, once again looking up at her window. For a second I considered being like John Cusack in Say Anything, holding up an 80s boom box and serenading her with my music so she’d notice. But I reckoned that was borderline stalking, not to mention disturbing the neighbours, so I made my way to the stairs and climbed them to the second floor.

I stopped in front of her door, staring at it for a good two to three minutes before I even lifted my hand. I took several breaths, wondering if I was making a mistake. She probably didn’t wanna see me, let alone talk to me. She didn’t give a shit about my album. She had moved on.

But I was there. I felt like something had brought me there for a reason, and that reason was to play her my music. Let her know exactly how I felt about her - how she drove me crazy and how she’d hurt me and how I’d hurt her. How in love with her I’d been. How I still…

Finally, I knocked, a little too softly at first, but I didn’t want to startle her. At least that’s what I told myself. When no one responded, however, I knocked again, much louder and with determination.

“Jesus, I’m coming!” I heard her yell from inside. “Hold your-”

She stood before me with a half-eaten apple in her hand, her mouth open and her eyes wide. She wore a t-shirt and shorts, her hair pulled back in a loose bun and no makeup. She looked beautiful.

“Hey,” I said, my voice not quite cooperating so I sounded like a frog.

“Harry.” She said my name in almost a question, though she knew it was me. She just wondered why it was me.

When she didn’t say anything else, I shifted my eyes up and down the hall and shrugged.

“Can I come in?”

I admit, I expected her to nod and step back to let me inside her apartment. But when she shook her head, my face fell.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she remarked.

“Um...why not?”

“Because…” she began, her tone hard as steel, “I just got over you.”

“Over me?” I gulped.

“Yeah. It’s taken me a while, but I finally am,” she explained, placing the apple on the table by the door. Then wiping her hands on her shorts, she leaned against the door frame. “You haven’t shown your face here in nearly three months. I can’t just let you waltz on in here and undo everything.”

“‘m not…” I stumbled, “‘m not undoing anything.”

“Then why are you here?”

Her gorgeous but stern eyes glared at me, piercing through my heart. I looked down at my feet, thinking I’d made a mistake by coming. She didn’t want any more to do with me. I’d waited too long and missed the window. Maybe there hadn’t even been one.

Lifting my head, I looked at her beautiful face again. It was then that I recognized the shirt she was wearing - my old AC/DC t-shirt.

“Looks like you’re not completely over me,” I pointed. I dunno why I said it. It was petty and juvenile.

“What?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

She looked down at the emblem on her chest, seemingly just realizing what she had on. With a sigh, she dropped her arms.

“I just like it,” she said, her head held high. “And you basically gave it to me anyway.”

“No, I didn’t.” Shut up, H, you’re making it worse, I thought to myself.

“Well, you left it here. And I ended up sleeping in it. And you never came back, so…” She crossed her arms again in defense.

She was right. The last time I’d been in her apartment, we’d had a massive fight, and I’d told her it was over and stormed out. She’d tried calling and texting me for a couple days, but I’d ignored her, stubborn with pride. When I’d finally agreed to talk to her again, I was only being a right twat, unable to see or accept her side. So, we only ended up fighting again until she said she needed some space.

“I was giving you your space,” I muttered, knowing damn well I sounded like a wanker.

“For six weeks?” she snorted and shook her head. “You have some nerve, Harry.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What was that?” she stepped closer to me, her brows furrowed. “Did you really just say you’re sorry?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Sorry for what? For breaking my heart? For being a dickhead? For not calling or texting or even saying one word to me for freaking ever? For telling me it was over in the first place? Or for showing up here now when I’m finally over you?”

I blinked. “All of it,” I admitted.

Her lips twitched, and for a second I thought she was going to smile.

“Fuck you, Harry!” she exclaimed.

Stepping back, she grabbed the door, ready to slam it. But I brought my hand up and stopped it.

“I want you to listen to it,” I said, remembering why I’d come.

“Why should I listen to you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Not to me. To the album. It’s finished, and I want you to hear it.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You can’t be serious. You came here so I’d listen to your new music? You really are a douchebag.”

“No, you don’t understand, I-“

“You’re right, I don’t,” she interrupted. “But seems to me you had weeks to explain yourself, Harry. I’m done crying over you.”

She was about to shut the door again when I called out, “I’ve been crying over you, too!”

She stood still, her hand on the door that was opened only a crack. Leaning her forehead against it, I could tell she was holding back tears. I didn’t want her to cry now, at least not over this.

“Liar,” she croaked.

“It’s not a lie, ba-” I almost called her baby, but I knew she wouldn’t like that. Not yet. “Please. Let me in. You don’t even have to talk. Just listen to the album.”

I stood silent for a moment, watching her eyelashes flutter against her pink cheeks. Finally, she let out a sigh and stepped back, opening the door to allow me to step inside.

“Thanks,” I muttered low as she closed the door behind me.

She didn’t reply. In fact, she didn’t even look at me as she grabbed her half eaten apple and went into the kitchen. I stood in the middle of the living room, waiting for her return.

“Okay,” she gestured toward me as she plopped onto the couch. “Go ahead.”

Spotting her laptop on the coffee table, I pointed. “Do you mind?”

She merely nodded and I sat down next to her and opened it. Then sliding my hand into my pocket, I pulled out the USB drive and plugged it in, bringing up the files I’d saved in the studio. With a click of the mouse, the first track began to play, those familiar chords ringing once again. I sat back and watched her, waiting for some kind of reaction on her face.

But none came.

Not when the first track ended, nor when the second song started, the first lyric blatantly about her. I started to get restless, rubbing my palms on my knees and bouncing my leg. I ran my fingers through my hair, a habit she used to tell me was endearing, only now she didn’t give any indication that she even noticed.

Finally, during the third song, I saw her make the slightest move, leaning against the arm of the sofa and resting her head in her hand. We made eye contact for a second before she quickly looked away, her eyes hazy. I wondered what she was thinking. I wanted so badly to ask, to pry it out of her, but I’d promised she needn’t talk.

We were halfway through the album when I caught more movement out of the corner of my eye. I’d been sat with my head down, unable to look at her during track seven, the most intimate and personal song I’d written. My gaze lifted to her, and I noticed her shoulders were shaking. Her head was still in her hand, her cheeks now wet with tears.

I wanted to reach out, to hold her in my arms. God, I wanted that so bad. But I let her be. I knew she needed to cry without me giving false promises that everything was okay. None of this was okay.

I’d cried when I’d written that song. I’d broken down in the recording booth when I’d sung the chorus for the first time. I only just realized as I watched her body shake with sobs that I’d been an idiot for not telling her how I’d felt. But maybe...just maybe she could finally hear me through my songs.

By the time that track ended, I was in tears too. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, sniffling as I tried to compose myself. I sat back on the couch again, my head leant back. I shut my eyes and listened to the next song, one a little more uptempo. I tapped my fingertips on the cushion at my sides, humming softly. This song was about happy memories, when we’d laid on the beach or beside my pool last summer. When we’d been so in love and hadn’t a care in the world. Before all the fighting and jealousy and…

I almost didn’t feel it at first, her hand brushing mine. It was such a light touch, I thought perhaps I was imagining it, lost in the song. But my eyelids fluttered open when I felt it again. I stared at my right hand on the cushion, her slim fingers over mine. She used to like to do that, when we’d be sat together watching a movie, or lying in bed reading. She’d trace my hand and knuckles with her fingertips, her delicate hand dancing over mine before I’d smile and thread our fingers together. It was an unspoken gesture of affection we’d had. I missed it.

God, I missed her.

I raised my head to look at her. I half expected her to be looking at me too, but she was focused on our hands. Her expression wasn’t one I’d hoped either. She looked sad, her cheeks still tear-stained. I wanted to kiss them, make it all better.

I opened my mouth to say her name, but nothing came out. I cleared my throat and she looked at me. I turned my hand over then like I used to, wanting to thread our fingers together. But she pulled away, her jaw set.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked, my voice a deep rasp.

They were the first words either of us had spoken since the music started, and I instantly regretted it, knowing I’d meant to stay silent until the end. We were on track nine now, a couple more songs to go. I still wanted her to hear all of it. I wanted her to know I still felt the same, even though I wasn’t completely over the anger, over the heartbreak. But I’d spilled my guts out in my songs. I was shit at communication, I knew that. I hoped that she could understand it all in my music.

“I...I don’t know,” she whispered.

She crossed her legs then, sat in the corner of the couch. She reached behind her head and pulled at her bun, letting her hair fall freely down her shoulders. She seemed comfortable, at least less resistant than she had when I’d knocked on her door. I could tell she wanted to talk, but she kept her mouth shut because I’d told her she could. I also felt like she was really listening though. And that was really all I wanted.

“That was a really good song,” she surprised me after track ten. But she didn’t say anything more.

Clearing my throat again, I sucked in my lips when the final song started. If track seven had been the most personal, this was the companion to it. This was me giving my heart, me asking forgiveness and giving it back. This was me wanting another chance to prove how I felt about her. I’d known as I was writing and recording it that the possibility of that happening was slim to none. But I had to take a chance. I was tired of keeping it bottled up, being a stubborn prat because I’d wanted my way and had to be right. I was all kinds of wrong. I knew I wasn’t fully to blame for our break-up, but I was taking responsibility and owning up to my part in it. I hoped she could hear that in my voice.

By the time the song was over, my head was in my hands. I perched on the edge of the sofa shaking. I’d already listened to it a handful of times in the studio and in my car, but it hadn’t had the effect it had now, sat in her living room with her beside me. I was sobbing like a baby.

“Harry…” I heard her whisper.

When I lifted my head this time, she was right beside me, her face so close it startled me. Her hands were in her lap, and she wrung them like she was either nervous or was trying to keep herself from touching me.

“I’m so sorry,” I cried. “For everything.”

“I know,” she nodded. “I heard.”

“Will you forgive me?” I asked, turning to face her. I wanted to lift my hand to touch her face but thought better of it. Instead, I hesitantly reached for her hand. I was pleasantly surprised when she let me take it.

“Only if you forgive me, too,” she said.

I let out a deep breath and leant forward. I wanted to kiss her but wasn’t sure if she was ready yet. Lifting my hand this time, I grazed her cheek and wiped a tear away with my thumb.

“I still love you,” I admitted. “I never stopped. I’m just so sorry I waited this long.”

She bit her perfect bottom lip, her big eyes blinking fast.

“I thought I was over you,” she said. “I thought you were over me.”

“Guess we were both wrong.”

She leant into me then, and I took it as my cue. I took her into my arms and kissed her, like I’d wanted to kiss her for months. She felt so good against me, and I quickly found myself shedding more tears.

“We still have a lot to talk about,” she whispered when I released her lips.

“I know,” I agreed. “I promise I’m not walking out this time.”

“Good,” she nodded before kissing me again.

We ended up listening to the album again together while we prepared and ate dinner. There were more tears, but also lots of conversation. We had a long way to go, but I was hopeful.

Something had made me drive down her street. I guess it was me.

If you enjoyed, please like, comment, reblog or send me a msg!

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[dukecollinsbf]

gulp... darlin hcs... this is kinda long... i use he/they pronouns here. hes a cis dude in my eyes i just type they out of instinct.

hes called julius

mexican-asian! (their dad is mexican, their mom is cambodian. they were born in mexico but moved to washington when their dad got a better job opportunity.)

his dad has a teardrop tattoo and one of those "cut here" tattoos on his neck. he's also blind in one eye

their mom is beautiful but #evil. she always had her nails painted dark red

julius' favourite colour is dark red

he got 4 siblings!! hes the middle.

their older sister was the typical 2000s teen girl. ik yall are envisioning the hairstyle im talking about. she also brags about how she loved leopard print before it got popular.

also shes a kesha lover. now she listens to chappell roan. she IS casual.

as an adult, their younger brother works with animals! their older sister has an online job and their older brother is a mechanic. their younger sister is in college and julius hates her bf. the one sided beef is crazy. theyve never even met in person.

he did boxing as a teen and his little sister used to do dance

ik more of the fandom wants them to have happy childhood BUT NOT ME!!!!!!1

BOOM UR PARENTS SUCK!!

their dad sold their wii for drug money (am i projecting)

their mom is worst than their dad muahahahahah

they had a saint bernard called Pooch growing up and a yappy little chihuahua that his mom loved. that dog also refused to die. like im talking this dog got attacked by a bigger dog and had a tumor and got hit by a car and survived. by the time the dog died it had a leg missing and was blind. the vet bills were crazy

even tho their parents were shitty, they could never bring themselves to hate them even though they wanted to. when either of them would pass out on the couch, he'd cover them with a blanket and clean the living room and kitchen. when his mom would be upset, he'd sit and listen to her even tho she never did the same to him

he doesnt talk to his parents now and he makes jokes about what he went thru to cope, but he wonders if they're doing okay, if they got healed and became better people or if they passed away and they never knew.

the bond they had with their unempowered friend was the same bond asher, david and milo have. his friend was called trevor.

julius was trevors first kiss because trevor complained about feeling like a loser since everyone started dating around their teen years LMFAO

their first concert was a metallica one that they went to with quinn

they worked as a waiter for a while as a teenager and had a work bestie that was like 40

guyliner...........

I STOLE THIS HC FROM A FIC IVE READ IF YOU FIND IT PLZ LMK SO I CAN CREDIT!! but they worked in a fighting ring at one point

my own add on to the same hc: during this time, they had a shitty little apartment and the most decorated space was a dresser dedicated to their fish, soda pop. that fish was spoiled as fuck and he cried when soda pop died

he frequented a diner to the point the lady behind the counter knew his order beat for beat

when they were teenagers, asher took inspo from their style. they used to wear those little black wrist bands with the little spikes (do yall know what im talking about) and thats where ashers love for his spiked collar came from

they do not have a single pair of blank socks. they all have some sort of stupid design on them

also ofc, the rubber duck, courtesy of domini.

they hate haircuts

they HATE the grocery store. they get overstimulated and wanna die immediately.

best meal theyve ever made for themselves is mac and cheese. from those little boxes.

aggro bit them one time and theyre still upset over it

TATTED AS FAWK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and they have piercings GODDDD THEYRE SO FINE

they also have sharp canines (im bouta bust)

i know yall want asher to have heterochromia but i hc julius has it. HOWEVER! I hc asher has anisocoria (one pupil bigger than the other). they bond over having eye conditions

they also fell out of a tree in the middle of the woods one time and cracked their head open and broke their leg and had to limp home

the first ever scar he got was on his chin when he and his brother were pushing each other around (as brothers do) and julius fell and cut his chin open. its very faded now, but his brother brings it up somtimes

one time, out of boredome, he ran away from his brother at the store

his little sister would hide between clothes in the store and would need to be called for on the intercom

i have more. theyre my fav listener. all my hcs go to them.

[hyuny-bunny]

cybersex | camgirl! x skz

chapter I • chapter III

MDNI (18+): this series will depict sex work and acts of sex. content warnings will include the following for this chapter: mention of masturbation, oral (m rec), alcohol, p in v (no condom / reader on birth control), cum, creampie/breeding, use of pet names (good boy/puppy), threesome, afab reader

genre: skz x camgirl!reader, use of she/her/hers

wc: 3.5K

Chapter 2

You had stopped by to see Sana at the restaurant tonight while she was having her break. Since you didn’t have an official breakroom, most of the staff would sit in the storage room. You had come in from the alley through the exit and sat chatting away in the storage room. It was far from ideal but the room was quite big, there were tucked away corners stacked with crates no one used that doubled as your chairs. As you caught Sana up on all the moving festivities and the cute downstairs neighbor who always seemed to be heading out as you were coming in, someone walked into the room. You both fell quiet hearing two familiar voices.

“Do you really think it’s her?”

“All the dots connect back to her. Look, she’s been moving into that place all week and it just so conveniently happens to be that KitsuneKitty has been on a break?” You clocked in on Jeongin’s voice, Sana is about to speak but you’re quick to cover her mouth.

“Dude-”

“Hear me out, who else would Sana bring on to her stream? We know what her girlfriend looks like from the other streams. It’d only make sense considering that Sana and Y/N were living up until this last week. Then, after she came on the first stream, she filmed from the same room, two more times after that stream, before doing it in another spot. Besides, do you really think she makes enough here? To live in that apartment all alone?”

“You’re kinda creeping me out with how closely you pay attention to detail.” You hear Seungmin say as they shuffle around in their spot. They were talking about you not even realizing you were there listening to everything. 

“And you should pay attention more. Then, just the other day, I saw a box in the lobby on my way out addressed to her,” Jeongin is abruptly cut off by Seungmin.

“Please tell me you didn’t open her package.”

“OF COURSE NOT… I looked up the return address and it was to a sex store online.” You kick a bag of flour in the corner on accident. They stop talking for a moment trying to see if anyone else is in the storage room. Sana is frozen as a statue, she doesn't dare to take a breath. 

“Look, I’m not saying it isnt her… but what does it good does it do us to know if it is her? What’re you gonna say? ‘Hey, I wank it to you almost every night, big fan of your work’? You can’t even look her in the eye as it is, could you look her in the eyes if she knew how much you-” It was Seungmins turn to be cut off

“Oh don’t act like you’re above it! Your walls are a lot thinner than you think. I don’t know what I’d do though… Probably beg her to use me for her own pleasure.” The conversation comes to an abrupt stop when you hear the storage room door swing open. This time it’s  Minho’s voice that booms in. 

“I have plates getting cold, can you two stop fucking around and run them?” 

“Sorry, Jeongin wanted to discuss his revelations about your little minx. He’s getting too antsy for that surprise stream.” Seungmin slaps the back of Jeongins shirt as he pushes him out of the storage room. The room is silent once more with only the faint sound of Minho talking.

You turn to Sana to find that her eyes have gone as wide as yours. Your head is whirling with thoughts, all consumed by the reality that they knew. It didn’t scare you though, it only added to your excitement. Oh, tonight’s surprise might’ve been spoiled as you had planned a face reveal but another idea had come to mind. Instead, you toyed with the idea of what Jeongin had said. You pull out your phone to text the two of them.

“What’re you doing? Are you okay? I’m so sorry I should have never told those two idiots about my stream I just didn’t even think they were sober enough to remember let alone watch.” Sana asked worriedly, there’s a fear inside of her bubbling over, that she would be the reason you felt violated.

“This isn’t your fault! I’m fine really, I don’t mind at all. I’m a little surprised I guess but I knew the risk I was taking. Besides, I’m a little surprised that they would even begin to pay that much attention.” You say grabbing Sana by both arms to reassure her that you are more than okay. There was nothing to be upset about truthfully, you were flattered that they watched your streams. “Now, I think I owe my little detectives a surprise for figuring it out.

You: hey! do you two want to come by my place for some drinks tonight? i have a surprise for you both :3

Jeongin: sure! we’re both working rn but i’ll pick something up on the way :) 

Seung: sweeeet, whats the surprise?

You: it’s nothing really but its really something you’ll love!

They took the bait so easily it was almost comical, Sana was leaning over your shoulder watching your texts. 

“Oh you are a little minx, aren’t you? I think Mina and I will have to watch this tonight.”

—

You had set the room up for tonight's show, this room had been your best surprise yet. The windows were covered by white floor-to-ceiling drapes, tied with black ribbon and embroidered with delicate flowers. You had left the hardwood exposed, opting for a white fur throw rug in place moving it in or out of the way depending on the occasion. The bed was centered in the room, it was covered by silk pink sheets, a lacey pink comforter, white throw blankets, and an assortment of pillows in all shapes and sizes. The room was dimly with your led light bulbs, offering a soft pink glow to the room, it seemed like a sweet and coquettish room aside from the bookshelf lined with vibrators, dildos, and other assorted sex toys. 

You had prepped yourself like you normally had for these streams, the makeup was always fairly simple. A smooth base with glowy skin, the perfect shade of blush that made you look flushed, an eye shadow look that held more emphasis on the strategically placed shimmers that captured like diamonds with light reflections, and the mauve shade of lipstain that made your lips look pouty and bitten. You put on a matching black two-piece set under your inconspicuous outfit consisting of a grey sweater and black shorts that were a tighter fit, topped with a pair of black over-the-knee socks. The stream was set to start at 11 pm and your boys had arrived at 10 pm on the dot.

You opened the door with a gleeful smile, welcoming them in. They both wore t-shirts with sweats, and both had a cologne that wafted in the room. While you had never felt any crushing feelings for the two of them, there was no denying how cute they were. They were cute in the way that gets a girl giddy when she sees her waiter is this hot and their sweet mannerisms just added to the effect. You asked them how their day was as you pulled out some snacks for the beer they had brought over. You all sat on the floor surrounding the coffee table, the buzz slowly crept up on you.

“Mm so what was our surprise?” Seungmin asked as he took a sip of his drink. Jeongin had been frequently checking his phone, it was almost time. You had decided that now was as good of a time as any. There was still about 10 minutes from the countdown, that left the perfect amount of time to see if your plan would go as you wanted.

“You sure you want it now? Jeongin seems a little antsy, are you sure you want the surprise right now?” You smile to the both of them letting your eye contact linger on Jeongin a little longer, his lip bitten by his teeth.

‘Oh uh, um, yeah sorry I just was, uh, waiting for something.” He says before locking his phone once more and setting it down on the coffee table. You wink at him before telling them to follow you to the surprise, not missing the way Seungmin cocks a brow in surprise, and Jeongin’s cheeks flush pink. You walk down the hall to the two of them in toe, before you reach the door, you look up to the two of them with a warning. 

“You can refuse your surprise if you want, it’s no fun if you don’t want it got it?” They both shake their heads quickly like puppies before sparing a glance to each other. You open the door instructing them to sit in front of the screen, once the door is closed behind you, there's an internal flip switch for you.

 “I was thinking long and hard about what you said, and really, it warms my heart to know you two watch me to get off.” The tops of their cheeks are burning as they sit cross-legged staring at you sink to your knees, crawling over to them on all fours before stopping between the two of them. 

“And I thought that there was no better to reward you two for being so supportive of me then to return the favor? Hmm? I mean hearing you say you’d let me use Jeongin, got me so wet I had to come straight home and touch myself to the thought.” You notice the strain in their pants is growing, you feel yourself getting hotter when you lean forward resting your hands on the tops of their thighs. 

“You’ll let me use tonight, right, Jeongin? You’ve been such a good boy waiting for my return, you want to make me happy mm?” You say rubbing your hand up his thigh to where you can see the outline of his cock imprinting his sweats, he nods yes and whimpers when you brush your hands just across his boner. “Poor baby, can’t even use your words and I haven’t even started. I need to hear you say yes.”

“Y-yes, p-please.” You pull him into a kiss by his shirt muttering good boy and letting him lean back. You turn to Seungmin, his eyes are blown out staring at the hand resting on his thigh. You pick his chin up to make him look you in the eyes. His big brown puppy eyes stare at you, if it wasn’t for the waiting audience of viewers you would’ve pounced on the two of them already.

“You too puppy? I can’t touch you unless you say you want me to.”

“Yes.” Seungmin says almost above a whisper. You lean forward planting a sweet kiss on his lips as well. 

You swiftly stand up stripping yourself of the shorts and sweater, reaching for your mask before pressing the button to begin the stream. The chat is pouring with comments about where you’ve been, the new set up and most importantly your two guests. You giggle at some of the comments that already begging them to strip.

“You’re all gonna have to be warm and welcoming to my two guests okay? They’ve been some long-time supporters of mine and I have to show my gratitude in so my way right?” You say taking notice of the two boys palming themselves from the monitor. “Can my puppies strip for me?”

Any thoughts the two of them have ever shared are out the window, they both are pulling their shirts off, ridding themselves of all clothes til they're down to their underwear. You instruct them both to stay standing up, you look back at the monitor catching a glimpse of what everyone else was watching. You bite your lip looking at the monitor rubbing their hard on’s over their underwear, while stroking Seungmin, you pull Jeongin in close to you, reaching up to grab the waistband of his underwear with your teeth pulling them down just until hit his knees. His thighs shiver and the feeling of your mouth so close to where he needed it. He kept his arms and hands behind his back unsure of what to do with them, he stepped out of the underwear where you returned to Seungmin to do the same. They’re both much bigger than you expected which only sends a rush of wetness into the spot in your panties that's already soaking through. 

You take Seungmin into your mouth looking up at him, he’s looking down at you with his jaw slack and moans slipping past his lips while you take as much of him into your mouth. You feels so warm and wet around him, he cant help the way his cock twitches when you moan so heavily around his cock. He forces himself to keep his hands at his sides while you work your mouth on him but the idea of taking a fistful of your and rutting himself into your mouth is tantalizing. Jeongin watches in awe looking up at his roommate's fucked expression, he waits like the good boy he is. Your hand still stroking him, his tip angry pink with drops of precum beading at the tip. The movement of your mouth against Seungmin gets sloppier as you leave your spit and saliva covered all over his cock, you feel him getting closer to cumming with the way he twitches in your mouth. You pull off him and he whines out at the loss, his cock twitching while you keep pumping ever so slowly.

“Such good boys aren’t they? Do we think they should cum yet?” You say while moving to Jeongin to bring him into your mouth next, he almost cums when your tongue makes contact. There’s a large donation thats sent to you that reads off a message

$1000 donation from hyjnny “let the one in your mouth fuck you doggy since he’s such a good dog”

You let him out of your mouth with a pop and smile looking back at the camera, thanking the donor. Your legs feel weak at the thought of letting Jeongin take you from behind. You continue to make sloppy wet noises against his cock, taking him as far down your throat before gagging and going back in once more. He watches with eyes wide, it feels like a dream to watch you take him down your throat. He was always shy with his size, too many of his partners complained that it wasn’t pleasurable so the idea of not only being so far down your throat but to fuck you in front of the thousands of people watching wanted to make him cry cumming.

Seungmin is starting to thrust into your hand as most of your focus is on Jeongin fitting in your mouth. He’s erratically fucking into the makeshift hole that is your hand, letting some of his own spit dribble out. You finally pull off Jeongin, and a line spit connecting your mouth to his cock stays between you two. You instruct them to kneel now once more in front of the camera, you align them to face each other with you in between, you lean into kiss Seugmin and place Jeongins hands on your tits. They’re both squishing you between them, Jeongin focused on groping your tits and ridding you of your bra. Seungmin’s hand dives to firmly grip your neck in his hand while Jeongin humps you over your underwear from behind. The room fills with the sound of wet kisses and breathy moans. You pull Seunmin off your mouth and pull your panties off to leave you in nothing but your socks. Another donation pings,

$500 donation from 97ddynahc “suck the brunette off while the other fucks you from behind, let them both breed your holes” 

Your pussy dripped with the need for the two of them, to take them both at the same time was going to take a lot to not orgasm at the first movement. You let Jeongin guide your hips in place, his tip swiping at your entrance and nudging your clit sending a chill through you and a gasp. 

“Let me know if it’s too much okay? I know I’m on the bigger side and its uncomfortable for some people,” Jeongin says in small voice, hes terrified of hurting.”

“I promise, puppy.” Every time you called them ‘good boy’ or ‘puppy’ it only made Jeongin want to fuck the sweetness out of you until you could only beg. He slides in letting you adjust to him before moving. He fills you up, you feel every inch and ridge inside of you as he rocks his hips back in forth. You thighs shake wanting to just squirt all over his cock in that moment.

“Jeongin, ah, please.. Go harder please,” Your whimpers sound like music to them, it doesn’t take long for him to pick up the pace, slamming his hips down into you while Seungmin grabs your face to do the same. Seungmin takes hold of your head, creating a makeshift ponytail as he begins fucking your mouth, he’s big. He hits the back of your throat with every thrust, the motion of the two of you only forces you to take Seungmin even further down your throat.

Jeongin can't help himself, he’s so entrapped with the way your ass moves with every slam of his hips. He adjusts your hips to pick up more speed and hits that spongey spot inside you, the new angle causes you to moan vibrating against Seungmins cock. It felt so dirty to be used the way you were at this very moment but it only made you clench around Jeongins cock. They both are panting and grunting with every thrust, skin slapping against skin. You feel your orgasm approaching quickly and hard. The build-up in your stomach has you clenching harder than before causing Jeongin to thrust deeper, he slows down and grips your hips fully pulling you into him. Burying his cock deep in your pussy he lets go of everything, he whines loudly and shakily, and you wonder if the neighbors can hear him. He doesn't stop thrusting knowing you're close. Seungmin pulls off you and starts stroking himself to allow himself to cum on your face and chest. Your mouth hangs open while he shoots his warm white cum all over your face and chest letting whatever you catch in your mouth, swallow back. Jeongin continues thrusting grabbing your arms to hold them behind and Seungmin reaches under you to circle your clit as you cry out, squirting all over the two of them. You both stay still, trying to catch your breathe. You look up at the monitor, your mask sloppily misaligned and the other two boys are about to pass out. You wave goodbye and say your thank yous turning the stream off. 

You crawl over to the bed reaching for your robe, trying to grip the bed to stand up but your legs give out. Jeongin stands up somewhat stable, lifting you up into his arms with is arms wrapped around your waist.

“ I have water in the shower for us, theres some.. water bottles in there.” You say tired as Jeongin sits you on the love seat in the corner. Seungmin is grabbing a towel from the dresser to layover the mess covering the floors.

Jeongin remerges with water in hand. Your throat is sore but you feel like your on cloud 9. No one says a word while you drink the water down.

“So uh… How was it?” You ask to break the silence.

“Better then I ever could have dreamed of. Would you… want to maybe do it again?” Seungmin is the first to speak, you feel yourself blushing. It felt so silly to blush after you just let them cum in/on you.

“ Oh uh.. Definetely… I don’t know about a threesome again. That was a lot of cardio for me” You giggle at the last part. Jeongin laughs, it was one he does when he was a little shy about compliments.

“Sorry for cumming in you, I wasn’t sure if i should but can I get you a Plan B or um,” Jeongin asks but you shake your head laughing.

“No worries here, I’m on the pill. Do you guys mind keeping this between us? I just wouldn’t want anyone at work to know if that’s okay?” You ask.

“Worried about Minho? Don’t worry he’s hopelessly in love with you but this stays between us… and maybe everyone who watched but who cares about those one’s.” Seungmin says reassuring you. 

You walk the two of them to the door and say your goodnights, you settle away in bed after a nice long bath, trying to relax any possibility of sore muscles. You’re drifting to sleep when you get a message.

hyjnny: hey babe, loved your live tonight. If you ever want to collaborate sometime let me know, think we might be pretty close. Check my page out, i think you’ll like what you see. Here’s my number if you want to meet up sometime xxx-xxx-xxxx

----

a/n: feeling a little rusty but i hope you all love this chapter, look forward the next one ;)

taglist (7/30): @skzooluvr @breadpuddingboys @weshhhhhhhhhhhhh @ihrtlix @complete-kpop-trash @strayzid @amara-mars

[aquareegia]

Transcript of Will Ramos' essay on Sleep Token for Rock Sound magazine

I might play in a metal band as part of my job, but I don't listen to much metal music anymore.

A few years ago though, I remember one of my friends saying to me, "Dude, you've got to check out this band Sleep Token… They're pretty cool".

I'd never heard the name before, but I'd listened to 'Hypnosis' and a couple of other songs from the band's second album, 'This Place Will Become Your Tomb', to see what they were like.

Hitting play for the first time, I was caught off guard. You hear the guitar and these slamming instrumentals and instantly you think, 'This is about to fucking kick ass'. You're so sure that the vocalist is about to come in with some gnarly screaming, but then you hear this man singing, and he's singing so beautifully. I didn't see it coming at all, and as soon as I heard it, I knew that it was exactly what I needed to hear.

At the start of a long drive that I had to make on my own, I hit play on 'This Place Will Become Your Tomb' from the beginning for the first time. As the record began with 'Atlantic', I was vibing to the sound of the music, but as it rolled through each track I started to get more and more caught up in this incredible sonic journey. By the time it was over, I realised that I'd been on this emotional roller coaster of love, pain, happiness, sadness and nostalgia.

Boom, that was it - I was hooked on that album. Every single song on that record was so freaking incredible to me, and I needed to know more about Sleep Token. Believing that my friend and I were the only people in on this hype, I spoke about it to my band one day, and they said to me, "You need to listen to 'Sundowning'!" I was so mad that they knew about this band the whole time, and nobody ever told me, but I went back and listened to Sleep Token's first album like they suggested.

I remember thinking it was very different. It's not as polished, but it's very dynamic and so beautiful. I think it definitely says something when you can see the progression of a band from just their first and second albums. From then, I knew they were onto something incredible.

It feels like more and more people have been catching onto that hype over the last year, and now it seems as though their name is impossible to ignore. I remember when they released 'The Summoning' at the start of 2023, the day after they'd released 'Chokehold', it felt like it all went crazy. They had something like 4-million hits on that song in just two days, and now, it's got over 70-million plays on Spotify. It was the beginning of a huge explosion for Sleep Token, and the first time I heard it, I was genuinely confused by it. It's so ridiculously versatile, and on my first few listens I felt like the super jazzy outro didn't fit at all, but the more I listened the more it began to click. I remember at the time I showed it to Elizabeth Zharoff, a vocal coach from The Charismatic Voice, and the outro was immediately one of her favourite parts.

She's from a completely other world of music, so to hear her approval showed me how capable Sleep Token were of reaching people outside of the metal scene.

I might not listen to metal music anymore, but Sleep Token are revitalising heavy metal. It brings back the nostalgia that I felt when I was a little kid listening to this type of music for the first time and being like, 'Holy shit, what is this? This is so cool'. I had started to lose that feeling over the years, but every time I listen to these songs, all those emotions come flooding back. In my opinion, there's no band out there that sounds like them - and that's a truly impressive feat.

Merging metal with pop, R&B, and rap influences, and bridging all these different gaps that many artists have historically been afraid to explore, there's something here for so many types of music fans. For a long time, metal bands have been putting themselves in a box. There's been this idea that a metal band needs to be heavy, that you need to have a breakdown in every song, and that you need to tick all the boxes in order to succeed. It's been so refreshing to see the evolution of the genre over the last few years, and to see bands like Sleep Token bring all these different sounds to the forefront of metal.

It brings a whole bunch of unique people into the fold. People love to say that metal is dying, but it's music like this that keeps it alive. It doesn't just move the scene forward, it expands it.

Now, there are all these people who didn't listen to metal before listening to Sleep Token. R&B and pop fans are coming into this as fans of Vessel's singing voice and hearing all these metal influences along the way. The second verse of 'Take Me Back To Eden' has this great rap-inspired singing part, and it's these little things that speak to different people in different ways. All of this feeds into our community in some crazy way, shape, or form. It's welcoming people into a genre that they may never have been exposed to otherwise, and I think that s a beautiful thing.

As a vocalist, one thing in particular that draws me to Sleep Token is Vessel's voice. I have always been a screamer, but I've always wanted to be a singer at the same time. I always practise on the side of Lorna Shore, but in my mind I'm like, 'This isn't very good. My voice is not fit for metal at all, as far as singing goes'. When I first heard Sleep Token though, one of the first things I noticed was that Vessel and I have a very similar range. Hearing him lay down all of these incredible parts, it makes me realise that I can actually sing metal vocals.

Back when I first discovered them, I wanted to cover their songs in the hopes that more people would hear them. Now, I just want to cover them so that I can sing something that is in my range.

Obviously though, his voice is much more dynamic than mine because he's been polishing it for a very long time. He does a crazy vibrato and can switch between his head voice and chest voice super easily. It's crazy stuff, and as someone who has been a vocalist for so long, I can appreciate the techniques he's using. I love to hear the different ways he's able to blend his voice into the genre.

Another thing that makes his voice so unique is that it's so emotional. When I hear Vessel sing, I can truly feel the emotion behind his words. He might be this otherworldly figure singing about an ancient deity, but there's a distinct humanity to his vocals. You can sense his sadness and pain, and whether people realise it or not that draws a lot of people to Sleep Token's music. They're the band that you can listen to at two o'clock in the morning when you're driving down the road alone. They're the perfect companion for those moments where you're upset about something, and you just need to listen to something that feels like a release.

That's a beautiful thing, because when you write music, you want people to feel the same emotions that you're feeling when you're writing it. The way that Vessel translates all of that is so incredible, and it's arguably my favourite thing about the band. Between his vocals and the instrumentation behind them, you feel exactly what they want you to feel. Even before thinking about what I knew about Sleep Token, when we were thinking about what we wanted to do with Lorna Shore, that was the goal. We wanted to bring a little bit more emotion into heavy metal music, and now they've done that and brought the singing into it too. Metal's now even more emotional because of the way he uses his beautiful voice, and I think that's what this genre has needed for a long time.

The truth is, from the moment I first heard Sleep Token, I knew they were one of those bands. Between their studio quality, their musical skill, and their ability to conjure up their own lore to incorporate into the music, I could see that they had the potential to be something truly special, they just needed that little push.

As soon as they got that with 'The Summoning', that was it - they were taking over.

First impressions are a big thing, and I think 'This Place Will Become Your Tomb' will always be my favourite album because of the way I first connected with it, but 'Take Me Back To Eden' is phenomenal. They have been able to get all of their emotion out in so many new ways on those songs because there's even more happening from a musical perspective. They've managed to strike the balance between heaviness and beauty perfectly and that's what we strive to create with albums. The goal is to create an album you can sit with, front to back, and feel the waves of emotion. A record to let yourself feel those things, and an opportunity to sit in isolation whilst you experience that journey.

It's a feeling that's amplified within Sleep Token's live shows, and I was able to catch them at Blue Ridge Rock Festival in Virginia. Lorna Shore were also playing, and we had a meet and greet scheduled for that day. It was scheduled to take place from 7pm until 7:30pm, and Sleep Token's set started at 7:30pm. I was a little antsy, because I know that meet and greets always overrun by half an hour or so, and they were the band I was most desperate to catch.

I was sitting there, it was 7:29pm, and the meet and greet line was still as long as it had been when we'd started. I started to hear 'Chokehold' playing in the distance, and I felt so sad.

People online were messaging me to tell me that Sleep Token were playing, and I was like, 'I know! I can hear them, but I'm stuck here!'

That's where it started to set in how freaking massive Sleep Token were becoming. They're one of the biggest metal bands that I'm aware of right now, and there were so many people watching that set. They refer to their live shows as rituals, their fans are the congregation, and the stage as a place of worship. It's something that could easily seem tacky if a band did it with little consideration for the details, but they're so committed to what they do.

After about three minutes, as I heard 'Chokehold' coming to an end, I stood up and said, 'Alright everybody, I've got to go. I'm so sorry, but if you know me, you'll understand'. The people who come to our meet and greets know how much I love Sleep Token, so they were like, 'Dude, go!' I sprinted out of there, leaving the rest of the band still doing the meet and greet, and made my way over to the stage. I thought I was the only one who wanted to see their set, but ten seconds into running I turned around and saw Of Mice & Men's singer, Aaron Pauley, following me. We started running through this huge crowd together, and everybody was so excited. I'm not the type of guy to leave a meet and greet early, but I needed to witness that set. It was an act of true love!

Even when they post on Instagram after shows, the captions are always like, 'The ritual has been completed in Copenhagen'. They totally absorb themselves in the spiritual aspect, physically, visually, and sonically. It's a brand, and they completely own that brand. They've made it exactly what it is, and they stick to it.

When I saw them, they had four people onstage doing harmonies with them, and they just stood there in their cloaks.

They didn't move throughout the entire set, and I began to picture it as a church choir at the side of the ritual. The whole experience does feel super spiritual, and they don't just give 50 per cent to the theming, it's 100 per cent. People feel the emotion, see the way they embody this ideal, and hear this incredible music - and I think that's why people are so ready to absolve themselves in this spiritual moment.

Everybody has a different connection to every song because of the different things everyone goes through in life, but they get to experience all of that in a place where everybody else is feeling something too.

Vessel's vocals translate into their live experience so perfectly, too. His screams are even better live than they are in the studio, and he still sings beautifully, which is so impressive. I was genuinely doubtful that he was going to be able to hit all of those vibratos and do all the other crazy vocal work he does on the albums, but he hit every note. Sometimes, he doesn't even hit the notes that he does on the studio versions, but he hits another note that is equally as stunning. He's a true performer.

You can tell a lot about a band from their live performance, but as a band in the modern age you also have to put a lot of thought into your promotion. The way you come across on social media is important, and the way that people perceive you is largely down to how you come across online. That's why I've always been fascinated by Sleep Token choosing to keep the identities of their band members a secret, refusing to do interviews and placing the focus on their visual identity.

I definitely think that's played a part in their success, because it's allowed the music to take centre stage. I remember when I was first talking to the rest of Lorna Shore about Sleep Token, they told me about the lore behind the band and that the members are all anonymous. That was before 'The Summoning' came out, but since people have caught on there have been some serious investigative deep dives, so l'm pretty sure the internet has found out who Vessel is.

I didn't look that up though, because personally for me, I always really appreciated the fact that they were totally anonymous. I like the feeling that Vessel is just a voice in the ether. You can hear it, but you can't classify it as being the voice of any one person, it's just this intriguing mystery. I've heard a lot of people say that it reminds them of when they first got into Slipknot because when a lot of people I know first listened to that band, nobody knew who was behind the masks. They were just a bunch of dudes making music with no outside perceptions, but then obviously people found out. I think that Sleep Token have that similar allure for a whole new generation, but sadly for me that mystery was shattered when I met them after a show.

It was great to meet them, but I also really didn't want to know who they were. I loved not knowing and I think that the anonymous aspect of what they do plays such an important role in the impact they're having on the heavy metal world.

It's a bit of a double-edged sword because everyone wants to know their identities, but once you do know - you miss the anonymity.

There's something special about the way they're putting their music out into the world with no need for individual validation, and I think it takes a lot of guts and confidence in what you're creating to do what Sleep Token are doing.

Usually, you almost want everyone to know who's in the band, because often that helps push you forwards. If you have someone in your line-up who's been in a well-known band before, you want to use that name to get yourselves out into the scene more. Sleep Token aren't anybody, and that takes a lot of courage and humbleness to do. There's no predisposed idea of what their music is supposed to be or what it's going to be, and that's part of the magic.

It's something that also comes out in the lore, the symbolism, and the cryptic clues that Sleep Token scatter throughout everything they do. There are Reddit threads dissecting every single word in the songs and analysing each pixel within their visuals, but it's not something I've had the chance to fall into just yet.

When I first listened to 'This Place Will Become Your Tomb', I could only find one or two articles about Sleep Token online.

They were basic articles explaining the idea of the band and what they were trying to do, which I thought were cool, but I never really looked it up again.

Over the last year or so, it seems that these conversations have spiralled. People are coming up with these different ideas about the band's story, and there are all these hints appearing constantly. I don't know any of the Easter eggs yet. I'm still just fascinated by the music and their wicked aesthetics, but I love that they've got people talking. It's become this kind of community around the band, and as someone who grew up in this scene, seeing artists who are able to foster that feeling amongst fellow music fans is such an incredible thing.

I think that's one of the reasons why Sleep Token have been able to find success on such a wide level so quickly, because there's a constant conversation about them. If people aren't talking about their music, they're talking about the lore and the stories behind it, or they're talking about the potential identities of the band members. They have this perfect package in place that lends itself to a world class metal band, but they're achieving it at such an incredible speed.

They thought out every single element of this band before they even started, from how the melodies work with the vocals, to the emotion and the quality of the sound. A lot of people put out music that sounds like they're hitting a trash can, and whilst they might have really good singing over the top of it, you can't ignore that trash can. Sleep Token have got incredible production value though, which is even more impressive when you consider how versatile their sound is.

It's so well thought out that you hear new things in each song on every listen. If you listen to 'Take Me Back To Eden', the title track of their third album, there's an allusion to a particular part of 'Chokehold', and it's details like that which make their production so unique. They wanted to make sure that it came out perfect, and maybe - like all musicians I know - they think they could have made certain parts of it better in retrospect, but I honestly can't imagine how.

Between the versatility, the emotion that people feel when they listen to it, the heaviness, the quality, and the songwriting, Sleep Token don't cut any corners anywhere. That's why they're already playing these huge, career defining shows, and putting out music that's changing people's perception of heavy music as a whole. It's so exciting to be a Sleep Token fan, and I just want them to write even more mind-blowing music and play even bigger places because they truly deserve it.

The bigger the places that they play, the better they're going to sound live. They're already playing arenas over in the UK, and with the size of those venues I just know they're going to sound absolutely incredible. They're reaching heights much higher than most metal bands that I know, and the bigger they get, the better their production value is going to be all round.

'Take Me Back To Eden' only came out earlier this year, but I already can't wait to hear them put out more music. lf what we heard on album three is the direction that they're going in, I'm very optimistic to see what the future holds for Sleep Token. I imagine at one point, they're going to make it on the radio - and honestly it could happen sooner rather than later. I knew it when I first heard them, and I'm even more certain of it now - they're going to be huge.

[lilozzzyo3569]

Miguel O'Hara X Female Reader

Summary: You just started your new job working for the spider society and meet you boss....... Warnings: I do not own Miguel O'Hara (IF ONLY I DID), MDNI, Miguel O'Hara being low key obsessive and possessive, but more love spring and less call the cops crazy, you are super smart and created your trans dimensional device by yourself- GO YOU!

You were beyond excited, nervous but still excited. Ever since you were sitting in your apartment alone tinkering with a device that would allow your to explore different dimensions, you were just about to power it up when a small little digital brunette popped up and said "Oh good I got to you before you powered up your trans dimensional device, I am going to need you to come with me ASAP if you don't mind" you were certain that you had turned on your device, electrocuted yourself and were now passed out so you of course said "can I bring my pizza?"

Fast forward to now you are walking through the spider society building with Lyla chatting your ear off explaining everything as she directed you to your office, while you held a large box with all of your equipment in your arms. Lyla then told that you needed to met the head of the spider society "the head spider?" you asked making Lyla chuckle, or is it "Mr. Spider?" Lyla stopped floating ahead of you to hunch over laughing and responded "yes, please call him that to show respect" you nodded as she pointed down the hall to a large door and said "just go through that door I gotta go make sure your office is ready for you." You walked to the door and barely managed to get the door open when a VERY large man lunged at you roaring "WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE" his voice boomed making you scream as you dropped the box and fell against the door as you stuttered "Ly-Lyla hire- me I smart- I -I-I please don't kill me Mr. Spider Lyla will be so mad" this did little to deter the very large although he was slightly confused as to why you called him Mr. Spider. But luckily for you Lyla appeared and scolded Miguel "WTF do you think you are doing to my new tech?" Lyla wagged her digital little finger at Miguel making him back off and argue with her "Since when do you hire without talking to me, I look up and someone is walking into my office, what did you expect" Lyla gave him a pointed look before he sighs and says "I'm sorry new tech that Lyla hired without talking to me" Miguel's heart immediately breaks though looking at you, now on the floor with tears in your eyes looking terrified, biting your lip, he reaches to help you up and feels how soft your little hand feels in his as you try to smile at his help. Once you are standing your turn around and start to gather your things. Miguel's breath catches in his throat at seeing you now bent over giving a truly breath taking view, you are completely oblivious when you hear him deeply inhale. You turn around after gathering your box asking "are you okay Mr. Spider?" Miguel wants to bash his head into his desk. He looks down at you biting your lip and looking up at him with genuine concern in your beautiful eyes, after he was he asshole who yelled at you. All he can think is, how is this perfect little angel even real. He looks confused looking at you "did you just call me Mr. Spider?" You tilt your head to the side saying, "Lyla said-" you are cut off with Lyla laughing and Miguel sighing deep and saying "you can just call me Spiderman," you nod embarrassed slightly blushing before Lyla telling you to follow her to your office before Miguel faints at how adorable you are.

You are working in your office with your headphones fixing some coding for Lyla unaware of the large man that keeps walking by your office inhaling your scent from outside your door. Miguel doesn't understand how he even got over here, he just couldn't stop thinking about you, your scent, your smile, your body, all the things he would kill just to be able to touch you again, hold you, ANYTHING. He still doesn't understand how he got so obsessed with you so quickly, maybe it was your scent, your scent was sweet like sugary fruity floral heaven, maybe it was because you were from a different dimension. He just knew that he needed to be closer to you.

So come lunch time he knocked on your office door, "it's open, is that you Peter?" you turned around to see your very large boss holding a small pile of empanadas. "I hope you like empanadas, I wanted to come and apologize for earlier." You smile at the food and offer for him to sit , you start to eat the empanadas as he takes off his mask showing you his face for the first time and smiles gently at you as he comments "I like your office" you smile brightly at him "thank you Lyla set it all up for me after I told her what I wanted." you lick you lips after finishing your empanada making Miguel slightly roll his eyes before saying "I am sorry for earlier, I didn't mean to scare you, I am really not a bad guy I was just- you just- ugh I am sorry" he holds his head down so you scoot closer to him and tentatively put your hands on his lap and say "I understand, I am actually happy to know you don't hate me" his head snaps up and looks into your eyes and says "I could never hate you!" you are taken aback a bit at how quickly he said that, you giggle cutely and OH GOD if that wasn't the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, his heart melted and if he wasn't sitting down he might've dropped to his knees from shock. Miguel looked into your eyes, "What dimension are you from?" you smile and tell him "Earth-71, Lyla teleported to me when I was working on my own trans dimensional device."

You spent your entire lunch break with Miguel in your office asking you endless questions about your dimension and your life. He seemed extremely fascinated in you and your life. You lunch break was almost over when he build up the courage to ask you, "um considering you just got to the dimension maybe I could take you out and show you around some time" you smile confused before saying "um sure okay, I am going out with Hobie, Gwen, Miles, Peter and Pavitr this weekend. Lyla introduced us when I first got to this dimension. They're all super cool." Miguel gritted his teeth and said "yeah they are very cool *sarcastically* but we can go out tonight, I'll pick you up at 7" he has said before smiling and leaving your office to go back to his office and think about how to keep you away from anyone that isn't him because you are clearly made for him and he is already in love *obsessed* with you

This didn't necessarily go where I thought but I am cool with it, I just really wanted to play around with some Miguel O'Hara being immediately sprung over you and wanting you all to himself

[in1-nutshell]

I don't know if there's a limit on how many asks we can have but I've got another one. So I've seen the trend starting in your asks where people are asking for the children to be put in the same universe. I just so happened to be reading the one with Rapidfire and Lithia while listening to the song Double trouble, and my brain basically just went, if OP's daughter (Maxima I think?) and Rapidfire were in the same universe that song would perfectly fit them. And it's all I've been thinking about.

Primus forbid if Maxima, Rapidfire and Miko are together in the same room.

Hope you enjoy!

What if... Optimus's daughter and Ultra Magnus's daughter lived in the same universe.

SFW, Platonic, Slight angst, Familial, Cybertronain reader

TFP

Maxima was with Optimus when he needed to return the data pad to Ultra Magnus.

Magnus had just stumbled across the box holding a small sparkling in it.

He jumped when Maxima squealed at the sparkling.

“Oh Primus! Ultra Magnus is that your sparkling!?”--Maxima

“No—”--Magnus

Maxima already scooped up the sparkling into her servos.

The sparkling just blinks.

“She’s adorable!”--Maxima

“Maxima—”--Optimus

“Don’t worry! I’m going to be your brand new babysitter when Prime and your Dad have to do boring work stuff!”--Maxima

Maxima turns to Ultra Magnus.

“Can you open the door? I can find her a place to sleep while you two get the energon ready.”--Maxima

Magnus wordlessly opens the door.

Maxima coos at the sparkling.

Magnus turns to Prime.

“Looks like you have one of your own Magnus.”--Optimus

Magnus looks over at the giggling sparkling in Maxima’s hold.

He smiles a bit.

“I believe so, sir.”—Magnus

Maxima took her babysitting duties with Rapidfire very seriously.

From one abandoned sparkling to another, she understood the sparklings place better than most bots. Even with the age gap, Maxima was Rapidfire’s best friend.

Whenever the meetings grew too long, Maxima would always try and bring Rapidfire out and about the base on her sparkling sling.

Maxima knew how to keep a sparkling entertained that was one thing for sure.

Optimus and Magnus walking out of the meeting.

Optimus stops for a second.

“Sir, is there something wrong?”--Magnus

“…I have a feeling something is about to happen…”--Optimus

“Like what—”--Magnus

BOOM!

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO PULL THE RED WIRE!”--Maxima

“I THOUGHT IT WAS THE RED BUTTON!”--Rapidfire

“YOU DON’T TOUCH THAT ONE EITHER!”--Maxima

“…”--Magnus

“You will earn the sense with time Magnus…”—Optimus

Once the war broke out, however, there was a slight change to Maxima’s demeanor.

She became much more protective of Rapidfire as the war drew out.

Rapidfire did notice the change when their adventures around the base became less and less.

How Maxima started hanging around the medics more and started bringing her own med kit ‘just in case’.

Something that all the adults were rather grateful for as the sparkling was a bit accident prone and rowdy.

She would have done nicely with the Wreckers.

Speaking of the Wreckers…

Eventually came the day that Ultra Magnus would leave for the Wrecker’s base. That meant that Rapidfire would be going too.

Maxima tried hard not to cry as Rapidfire clung onto her pede pleading and begging to not leave her.

Both fathers’ were a bit distraught seeing them so close to tears.

It was Magnus who relented.

He would go to the Wrecker’s for a while, then return for Rapidfire.

It was delaying the inevitable, but some time was still bought.

“Are you really serious Father? I can stay?”--Rapidfire

Magnus nods his helm solemnly and looks at Optimus who had Maxima by his side.

Magnus hadn’t seen the young one this close to tears ever since the last time Megatron was brought up in a conversation.

“Yes, you can. Be good to Optimus and Maxima, okay?”--Magnus

Rapidfire hugs his pedes tightly.

Magnus scoops his sparkling into his arms and hugs her for a bit before walking to Maxima.

He gently places his sparkling into her arms.

“I trust she will be in capable servos?”--Magnus

Maxima nods furiously trying to keep the tears at bay while holding a shaky Rapidfire.

“You better come back for your sparkling Ultra Magnus sir. We’ll be waiting for you.”--Maxima

Magnus nods and turns to Prime.

“Best of luck Ultra Magnus, Rapidfire will be safe with us.”--Optimus

“Thank you, Optimus.”--Magnus

Magnus began to walk towards his ship, never once turning back. He knew if he did, he wouldn’t leave.

Rapidfire grew around the base as a little ball of energy just waiting to burst.

It came in handy with team moral.

Nothing can boost someone’s spirit like a smiling sparkling trying to walk with a bucket on their pede.

The day of the bombing on the Wrecker’s base came in.

Optimus sat both Maxima and Rapidfire down for the news.

Rapidfire pleaded with the Prime asking if this was a joke.

Maxima, despite every wire in her system wanting to break down at the news, she firmly steeled up and held Rapidfire as she sobbed into her chassis.

The only thing Maxima could do was hold her, her entire frame dwarfing the smaller sparkling, hiding her from the cruel world around them.

Timeskip to Earth…

Rapidfires growth shook everyone on the team.

Maxima hates the size difference.

“HEY!”--Maxima

Rapidfire looks down at an angry looking Maxima.

“Yes?”--Rapidfire

Maxima holds a slightly mangled piece of equipment.

“What is this?”--Maxima

“Umm…”--Rapidfire

“These were the magnet dagger I have been trying to perfect for months… and what did you do?”--Maxima

“…I squashed it.”--Rapidfire

“You squashed it.”--Maxima

Maxima sighs a bit.

“I needed that Rapid.”--Maxima

Somewhere in the base…

“Why do I feel… pride?”—Ratchet

Maxima and Rapidfire are a duo that no Con wants to be against.

Sometimes the chaos spreads and they both have the combined power of one braincell.

Primus forbids Miko gets her hands on the Apex Armor and joins them.

When Magnus returned to the base Rapidfire stampede to him and knocked him down.

Magnus was extremely confused about who the giant bot was.

Maxima giggling at the confused bot.

“What’s wrong sir? Aren’t you happy to see your sparkling.”--Maxima

Magnus’s optics widen and looks at the teared eyed smiling bot in front of him and hugs back.

“Why is Rapidfire hugging Commander shoulder pads?”--Miko

“That’s her father Miko.”--Maxima

“… I want a DNA Test.”--Miko

[delulustateofmind]

A City of Dreamers [Part One]

Series Summary: ModernAU of ACOTAR, Azriel breaks away from the small town of Windhaven to escape his toxic family and chase his dreams with his newfound family. Leaving behind his small-town life for new ventures in Velaris. 

[Part One]{Part Two]

Work Count: 1.5K

Trigger warnings: Tabaco use and trauma mentioned, I think that's it!

Another night, another nightmare. Azriel awoke to the gentle sunlight creeping through his window, emitting a small groan as he stretched amidst the boxes littering his bedroom, remnants of his recent move taking a toll on him. Another task he needed to complete to a list that already seemed endless. 

Three years prior, Rhysand, fresh out of university, pitched the idea of starting a tech company called ‘Night Corp.’ Rhysand’s father, a real estate mogul, agreed to fund the venture under the condition it operated in Velaris. As the company prospered, they moved into an apartment closer to work. 

The company ‘Night Corp’ is the biggest in technology. Booming after a year of the three of the ‘brothers’ working eighty-hour weeks. Azriel running the programming and hardware side. Cassian working on management and dealing with the paperwork. While Rhysand was the face, he made sure to bring in the investors and funding. Over time, the company grew larger and larger. Which led to the boys moving into an apartment closer to work. 

The apartment boasted amenities, including separate bathrooms and balconies for each room. Azriel found solace in his smoke breaks on the balcony, appreciating the alone time overlooking the city with a faint scent of tobacco in the air. Cassian however would always chastise him for smoking, but old habits are hard to die out. 

Struggling with the sleepless nights fueled by long coding sessions and haunting memories, Azriel joined Cassian in the kitchen. Finding Cassian making breakfast and doing a small dance as he jammed out to his booming music. 

Azriel moved past him to start his morning coffee, much deserved from the late night he had. Cassian shot him a big grin. 

“There’s a boxing gym nearby if you want to check it out with me later today,” Cassian mentioned as he removed his headphones. 

Azriel shook his head, his messy dark curls bouncing. “I need to ensure the program is fine for the next big launch. Security reasons” Azriel shrugged. “I’ll check it out later with you some other time.” 

Cassian raised a brow. “You know, Az, you don’t have to work yourself to the bone anymore. We’ve got a solid team now. Gone are the days of us slaving away in Rhys’ mom’s basement. Remember, you hired the best from Velaris Tech. Let them shoulder some of the load.”

Azriel shrugged, pouring his coffee and taking a sip. “I’ll think about it” 

It’s true, that Azriel did seek out some of the best programmers for the business. A business that started in a business that now had several major buildings around Prythian. While Velaris remains to be headquarters. 

Rhysand, already at the office, tasked Mor, who was already busy as the marketing director, to find him a personal assistant. Signaling the start of yet another busy day at Night Corp. 

*****

In an apartment two doors down from the boys lived Feyre and Y/n. Childhood best friends who grew up in a small town together that later reconnected. Both of them had faced their challenges.

Feyre is one of three sisters. The oldest was Nesta a famous ballet dancer, one of the best in all of Prythian who frequently traveled, rarely visited unless for the holidays. The middle child, Elaine, worked as a florist in the Springs. However, she did visit more frequently than Nesta. Feyre was the youngest and unfortunately, her father already exhausted most of his income on his other two daughters, leaving Feyre to figure her life out on her own.  

Feyre never was able to go to college unless she wanted copious amounts of debt. Though her artwork was enough to pay for rent, her income wasn’t stable enough. Some months were better than others, leaving Feyre in the middle of applying for a position as a personal assistant, there was no guarantee she would even get an interview without a degree. She was still going to give it her best shot. The job paid well enough that she could start saving up for her studio and be able to pay rent. 

Y/n on the other hand, inherited her parents' coffee shop. After they had passed away, left her with nothing but the deed to a business that she never knew her folks owned. Y/n spent her days tirelessly researching how to even run a business and while sorting through her emotions of losing her parents- cleaned up the place. From time to time Feyre would come and help. Painting the walls, even including a beautiful mural of the Sidra River on one of the walls. After a year of opening the business, the income was stable enough that she could hire a full staff.

The coffee house was unique in a way that instead of being open in the early hours of the morning, the cafe would instead be open late into the night. Allowing night owls like herself to feel the comfort of a good cup of coffee.

It was late afternoon when y/n woke up, she had worked a double late night shift after one of her managers called out. Climbing out of bed, groggy, hoping that her staff could handle the shipment coming in today, reluctantly checked her phone. Finding no calls from the afternoon staff, she considered it to be a small success, a small smile appeared on her face before walking into the living room to find Feyre on her ancient laptop typing away at her resume. 

“Morning” Feyre murmured with her brows furrowed in concentration as she slowly typed away. 

“Morning. Didn’t Tamlin get you the latest model from Night Corp?” y/n murmured sleepily. Taking a spot next to Feyre on the couch. 

“He did, but…” A deep sigh escaped Feyre’s lips “We broke up” she reluctantly met y/n gaze. “He proposed and I said no…” her face showed regret as she didn’t meet y/n’s curious glance. 

Y/n gazed at her, a look of pity for her friend on her face as she leaned her head onto Feyre’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Feyre. What made you turn him down?” 

“Funny thing is, Tam wanted a traditional housewife. Someone to plan parties, wear fancy dresses, and be pampered” Feyre explained, her tone tinged with sadness. “That’s just not me, I need room to grow. He was kind, but I think I really hurt him y/n” She shook off the sadness and continued with determination “So, I’m applying to Night Corp for a personal assistant position. How hard could it be?” 

“I’m here for you if you need anything…with the whole Tamlin situation. But I have to say, I’m proud of you for coming to that conclusion about what you want in life. That wasn’t an easy decision I’m sure.” Y/n gave her a soft smile before laughing softly. “You? Applying to a tech company, Feyre you had to ask me the other day how to download an app on your phone. Feyre you still use BuzzFeed!” Feyre playfully nudged y/n. 

“Buzzfeed will always have a special place in my heart, how else am I supposed to know what kind of pizza my zodiac sign is?” Feyre said with a chuckle “But seriously, the job pays well, and it can’t be that challenging, right? Plus, they’re on the rise. Word on the street is that their main office has a slide! How cool is that?” 

“I wish you the best of luck, I know you would nail that interview” Y/n grinned before getting up to get ready for her shift. “I have to be in early today, to help with the truck order. Let me know if you get a call from them, we can go celebrate!” Feyre gave a warm smile before slowly typing away at her cover letter. Feyre was absolutely awful with anything technology-based. 

After an hour of getting ready, y/n waved goodbye to Feyre and headed out the door. Locking the door to the apartment and heading down the hallway. Scrolling through her phone she bumped into someone. 

“Sorry,” she stammered before peering up at the man before her. Dark raven black hair with a slight curl that almost covered his eyes, a black face mask that hid most of his face, and hazel eyes that resembled burnt honey. He was beautiful, a classically handsome man. The man peered down at her roughly a whole foot taller and said in a voice that was so deep it sounded sinful. 

“You’re alright,” he murmured before gliding past her down the hallway back to his apartment. The sultry voice sent shivers down her spine. A blush had warmed her cheeks before she made her way to the elevator, their brief encounter replaying in her mind. Seemingly hypnotized by the deep voice, a melody she deeply wanted to hear again. 

Azriel returning from his run, sliding in the front door of the shared apartment, couldn’t shake the comforting scent of vanilla and coffee the girl exuded. 

[humanpurposes]

Just for a Moment, part iv

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, mentions of war and death, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, Tom Bennett's daddy issues, death, mourning/grief

Words: 8100

A/n: This acts as a final part and an epilogue. Also available to read on AO3.

In early June, Lois Bennett knocks on the Wheelans’ front door. She has tears in her bright blue eyes and her hands are shaking.

“It’s our Tom,” she says, when Kitty has sat her down at the kitchen table and made her a cup of strong tea. “He’s missing.”

A hole tears itself in her chest.

His ship had been part of the evacuation at Dunkirk– a triumph, so the headlines say. But that’s the way of the world, she thinks, men lay down their lives, others have their lives taken from them by force, and all the while the press and the politicians declare each one a step towards peace.

“You think Churchill and Hitler give a flying fuck about peace?” her father says one night as he nurses a glass of whisky. “They want victory.”

Every night as she lies in bed, she imagines some new possibility. Tom could have run to safety, sought refuge in the town or gone elsewhere. Maybe he’s just biding his time, maybe he’s on his way back to her.

He can’t be dead. He just can’t be.

He promised he would come home to her.

Monday 2nd September, 1940

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to the sirens, that blunt, whirring, wailing noise that sparks a primal fear in her chest. Somehow she always wakes up before they go off, like her instincts can alert her of what’s coming just a second before the noise begins.

The baby starts to scream from the space beside her– since Lois has started working as an ambulance driver, she leaves Vera with them most nights. With shaking hands, Kitty takes her into her arms, keeping her close to her chest as she fixes a woolly hat over her head.

“I’m sorry darling, I know,” she says, pulling the hat over Vera’s ears. She keeps meaning to buy some earmuffs for her, but then, it’s not her baby.

It’s pitch black in the house, it has to be. No lights or candles allowed unless you want the Germans to drop a bomb on your house. Kitty keeps one hand on the wall as she finds the stairs, and hurries down to the kitchen. Mam and dad’s footsteps follow behind her.

They have a routine by now. Dad grabs a coleman and a box of matches, mam grabs a photo from the front room and a basket with bread and blackberry jam, and Kitty holds tight to Vera. Then they file out the back door, into the garden, down the ladder into the shelter. Dad shuts the door, lights the lamp, and finally they can all see each other. 

Then comes the waiting. Some nights dad sings The Fields of Athenry and Kitty joins in. Vera seems to love singing, her eyes go wide and she lays completely still against Kitty, hypnotised by the humming in her chest. 

After a few slices of bread to keep them going, dad lies along the bench and closes his eyes and mam takes Vera into her arms. “Get some rest, love,” she tells Kitty.

How can she? Beyond the shelter the world is nothing but uncertainty, sirens sounding, bombs booming, spotlights and distant fires cutting through the darkness. Only the morning will tell what the true damage is, once the sun starts to rise and the smoke and dust have settled. Houses and livelihoods will be left as rubble. More lives lost, people who didn’t sign up, people who couldn’t, people who thought they might at least be safe in their own homes.

She looks at the photograph mam always brings in from the house. It’s of the four of them, Eddie, Art, Stevie and Kitty, lined up in the front room before the eldest two Wheelans left for the continent, over a year ago now. Eddie and Art look handsome in their uniforms and Stevie is uncharacteristically glum. He hated that he didn’t sign up sooner, he said he didn’t want to look like the one being left behind.

They all came home after Dunkirk, a few precious weeks when the world felt normal again.

Only not quite.

Because she still spent every night alone, and Tom Bennett was still gone.

“Where’s Douglas?”

Kitty snaps her attention to mam, as dad starts to stir on the bench.

“Eh?” he grumbles, “he’ll be along now in a minute, I’m sure.”

They wait. 

And keep waiting.

The bombs dropping on Longsight are louder than they’ve ever been before. Closer than they’ve ever been before. Each thunderous crash rocks the ground and the walls of their shelter.

BOOM– the roof trembles.

BOOM– dust and dirt fall from above them.

“We’ll be alright, here,” dad says, beckoning Kitty to sit between the two of them. 

They huddle together. Kitty curls her knees into her chest like a child and leans into her father’s embrace. Mam has Vera on her lap and places a hand on Kitty’s knee.

BOOM– mam whimpers and Vera is crying again. Dad holds her tighter.

BOOM– Kitty reaches for one of Vera’s tiny hands, and she clutches tightly onto her finger.

Then a final, earsplitting BOOM. The bench jolts beneath them. Kitty clings to her family and squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for something awful to happen.

Only it doesn’t. The bombs become fainter.

They slowly pull away from each other, looking each other in the eyes and nodding, to make sure they’re all alright– as much as they can be.

When the all clear sounds, they make their way back into the house.

Glass litters the floor of the front room. The windows are shattered, so is the glass cabinet with mam’s best china, photographs are cracked. Anything that isn’t broken has been blown back by the force of a hit.

Through the tatters of the curtains and a haze of smoke, a fire burns out on the street. 

Dad calls her name as she runs for the front door and yanks it open, but she can’t bring herself to step past the threshold.

The feels the heat against her face, as number 27 has been reduced to a pile of burning rubble.

The AFS arrives in time to stop dad from digging through the remains in search of Douglas himself.

Everything that belongs to the Bennetts is crushed under brick or goes up in flames. 

It’s like losing Tom all over again. The house where he grew up, the kitchen where Josie used to feed the Bennett and Wheelan kids ginger beer and sandwiches, the bedroom that smelled of cigarette smoke, where he told her he loved her, exist only as memories.

She doesn’t go to bed that night– there are only a few hours until daylight anyway. She sweeps up the glass in the front room and the bedrooms while dad boards up the window frames. Hardly any light reaches inside the house, the air is still thick and hazy with lingering smoke, so they keep the back door open. It airs the place out, but lets in the cold too.

When Kitty answers the door in the morning, Lois’ back is facing her. She’s still in her uniform with her hair in a neat bun and a helmet in her hand. 

“Lois?”

She turns towards Kitty with her lips slightly parted in a passive expression. “Dad’s gone,” she mutters. And once she says it the vacancy melts into grief. “He’s gone,” she cries, “everything’s gone!”

Kitty leads her into the house, but there’s nowhere comfortable to sit. The front room is in tatters and the kitchen is a mess with everything they’ve managed to salvage piled onto the table and chairs. 

“Tea?” Kitty asks quietly, but she feels stupid for asking.

Lois leans against the wall and holds her face in her hand as she cries.

Kitty unsurely places a hand on Lois’ shoulder and tries to think of something to say, but all she can think of is “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

First her mam, then Harry, then Tom, now her dad. She must feel like her life is slipping away.

Mam appears from upstairs, dressed for the factory with Vera in her arms.

Kitty frowns as she hands the baby to her. Lois has lost her father and her home in one night, and her mother hardly looks phased.

“There’s still work to be done, Kitty,” she says, grabbing her coat before she leaves through the front door with her head and shoulders straight.

But this is just war. Men die in trenches and on beaches, bombs fall on cities, tragedy unfolds and they Keep Calm and Carry On.

Kitty carries Vera into the kitchen, but she doesn’t like the sound of her mother crying. Her little face goes red and twists before she makes a sound, then she’s crying too, burying her head into Kitty’s chest and clinging to her arms with those small, pudgy hands.

Lois doesn’t look up, like she can’t hear her daughter crying at all.

Sunday 29th September, 1940

Weeks go by. Douglas is interred with his wife, in the churchyard of St Jospeh’s. Kitty spends her days in the shop and her nights in the shelter, rocking Vera through the air raids, humming lullabies and muttering stories about her brave mam and her fearless uncle Tom.

The Wheelans never used to go to church every week, but mam insists now, anything for their family to be kept safe. As they head home, Kitty looks up the hill, to the gravestone she knows is marked Josie Bennett. She pictures Tom and Lois standing by the graveside at the funeral, twelve years ago now. It doesn’t feel that long ago they were all children.

She walks ahead of her parents– dad’s been having trouble with his knees and it slows him down. Her head is hung, she’s staring at her shoes, the same black pair of shoes she wears everywhere.

What’s she got to walk so fast for anyway? Their house doesn’t feel much like a home anymore. They at least have the windows fixed, but she tends to keep her curtains drawn, because where she used to look out to Tom’s bedroom window, there’s just empty space. 

What’s the point in rushing home to a house that isn’t safe? That’s ghostly and quiet? That has a bomb shelter instead of a garden? What’s the point in carrying on when surviving the night is something they have to hope for? When each day brings a possibility that Eddie, Art or Steive could be missing or dead? What’s the point in clinging onto hope if Tom is truly gone? What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?

Someone knocks frantically on one of the doors ahead, their door she realises. Her vision is blurry through tears, but she can make out the shape of a tall man, with dirty blond hair.

She blinks.

“Tom?”

His body collides into hers. He hugs her so tightly he crushes her chest but she doesn’t care. He could squeeze the life from her and she wouldn’t care, as long as she gets to hold him. Her hands find their way to grasp at his neck and his hair, pulling him closer and crying silently into his neck.

He doesn’t smell like cigarettes, which she finds unusual. He smells like dirt and sweat, and when he pulls away from her she realises he’s dressed in a khaki blazer, slacks that are too big for him and a mismatching grey shirt. 

“What happened–”

He looks frantic, stroking his hands over her hair and down to cup the sides of her face. “Kitty, I’m sorry, I know it’s been a mad few months but where are they, dad and Lois? Are they safe?”

He doesn’t know. How could he? Lois tried to send a letter. Where would it be now? Collecting dust or sitting at the bottom of a pile of unimportant paperwork in a naval office because there was nowhere for it to go. 

Her eyes well with tears all over again. His face is leaner, the lines of his jaw and cheeks more defined, the left side of his face littered with bruises and scars. She traces her fingers over his cheekbone, and down to the coarse, blond stubble along his jaw.

“Kitty,” he says, shortly, taking her hand away from his face. “Kitty, where are they? Tell me they’re okay.”

She glances over her shoulder. Mam and dad are approaching them now. Their faces mirror each other, confused, horrified, sympathetic.

“Come on,” she mutters, taking Tom’s hand and dragging him with her as she walks solemnly up Slade Grove. 

They stayed joined at the hip as they walk, Kitty curling slightly into his arm, their legs brushing with every stride, bumping into each other and pulling themselves back in.

His hand is warm and his grip is firm, but she can’t stop herself from shivering. As much as she wants to gaze up at him, melt into his embrace again, kiss every inch of his face, she can’t help but feel guilty. He doesn’t ask any more questions, or so much as speak a word, but the concern is written all over him, the clenched jaw and the stiff shoulders that don’t sway as he walks. 

She won’t be the one to tell him, she can’t be.

Lois has been living in a boarding house with Connie since the bomb hit. Mam had offered her a place at their house, but Lois wouldn’t take it. Luckily the house isn’t too far away, and when Lois opens the door, she’s utterly stunned.

Kitty waits outside, with her hands behind her back, leaning against the brick wall. Now her hands and her skin feel cold, so she tugs at her coat, keeping it tight around her body to keep out the autumn chill.

For a few moments she wonders if she hasn’t just made the whole thing up; Tom, waiting outside her door, running into her arms and vanishing again. She rubs her fingertips together. She had felt him as she feels her own skin now, she’s sure of it, the scars, the stubble, the hair on the back of his hand. 

Tom Bennett, her Tom Bennett, though not quite the same man he was, before whatever happened at Dunkirk, before the war, when his place in her life was vague but at least it was consistent. She knows things will be different again when he comes out of that house.

She hears raised voices through the door, the unmistakable, raspy bass of Tom’s anger. Lois shouts back. Then it goes quiet again.

Her heart leaps out of her chest when the door swings open. Tom slams it shut and turns his head around, frantically, before his eyes find her.

He opens his arms and falls into her. 

He lets out a few short gasps for breath as he leans his forehead against her shoulder and wraps his arms tightly around her waist. 

She stays like that for as long as he needs, until he pulls back for breath. His face is red, it only makes his eyes seem brighter.

“Sorry,” he mutters with a sniff, “haven’t even said a proper ‘hello’ to you yet.”

Given the circumstances, she thinks that’s forgivable. She runs her hands over the sides of his face, his ears and his overgrown mop of hair. 

“Hello,” she says.

Tom smiles, taking one of her hands in hiss and placing a peck to her knuckles. “Hello.”

They walk slowly back to Slade Grove. Tom is a little more subdued, but not quite settled.

She can only imagine the thoughts racing through his head. He wasn’t here to save his father, he wasn’t at the funeral, there was nothing he could save from his own home. Time has slipped by, the formalities have been carried out and Tom couldn’t have stopped any of it from happening. 

Mam opens the door, takes one look at Tom, and purses her lips.

Kitty rolls her eyes and pulls Tom into the hallway.

The house has been cleared up a little better recently. They’ve gotten rid of everything that was broken, mended the curtains and the tears in the sofas, only the front room feels empty and impersonal without the china cabinet and the photographs they couldn’t save. 

They walk on through to the kitchen, where dad is sitting by the wireless. He stands to take Tom’s hand. “Sorry for your loss, lad,” he says, giving it a short, firm shake.

“Cheers,” Tom mutters, “good to see you again, Mr Wheelan.”

Kitty makes tea and splits her rations of bacon and eggs between her and Tom. 

“We were part of the evacuation effort from Dunkirk,” Tom explains, looking up to Kitty as she sits beside him. “I don’t remember much, but I woke up in a hospital in Paris, bullets and shrapnel in my chest, and the doctors were telling me the Nazis had taken the city.”

“Bloody hell,” dad sighs.

Mam sits stiffly in her chair and sips her tea.

“They were telling me I had to register as a prisoner of war, but there was this American bloke, a doctor, he told me they were trying out an escape route through Gibraltar.”

“We thought you were dead,” Kitty says. “Lois showed us the telegram. We all thought you were dead.”

She can see Tom’s hand flinch as if to reach out to her, but he stops himself and clenches his fist. He turns back to her parents across the table. “I had to die, officially like, they had some spare bodies and put my name to some poor bastard with 80% burns–”

Mam clears her throat.

“Sorry,” Tom says, trying not to smile. “Had to walk to Spain, then hitched a ride with these two blokes to Gibraltar. Onto Plymouth from there, and then…” he trails off. He has a distant look in his eyes that reminds her of Lois.

“Home?” dad says.

Tom shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, ‘spose so.”

“Will you stay with Lois?” Kitty asks.

Tom gives her a pointed look.

The raised voices, the slammed door. Maybe not.

“You could stay with us,” she says.

Mam tilts her head. “Now wait a moment–”

“Of course,” dad says, “we’ve got three empty beds upstairs, I’m sure we’ll be able to spare one.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Tom says, slipping his hand under the table and brushing his fingers over Kitty’s knee. She checks her parents aren’t looking at her and tries not to smile.

Dad holds up his hand in the way that means his decision is final. “Not at all, lad. We’ve known you since you were a childer, I think it’s the least we could do for you now.” 

Lois drops Vera off at 5 o’clock, the usual time. She doesn’t ask about Tom, in fact she hardly looks Kitty in the eye as she hands the baby into her arms and places a bag by her feet. She presses a quick kiss to Vera’s head, and then she’s gone.

Tom is in the front room, splayed out on one of the sofas, flicking an unlit cigarette through his fingers– because if he smoked in the house, mam would actually kill him. He sits up when Kitty walks in with the baby on her hip.

She sits beside him and places Vera on her lap.

Tom takes one of her little hands, and his thumb is almost the size of her palm. “Can’t believe she named the kid after my fucking canary,” he grumbles.

“Tom,” Kitty chides.

“Fuck, sorry– fuck.”

Vera lets out a vague gurgling sound and Kitty giggles. “Say it enough, it might be her first word.”

He chuckles, and gently waves Vera’s arm about. “When do babies usually start talking?”

“Give her a chance, she can’t even sit up yet.”

He strokes his finger along the baby’s cheek, and grins when he coaxes a smile out of her. But it’s like he stops himself, pressing his lips together as his eyes darken.

“What happened with you and Lois?” Kitty asks.

Tom heaves a heavy breath and takes his hand away from Vera. “I lashed out.”

“Christ, Tom.”

“She left dad alone,” he says.

If she didn’t have a baby in her lap, she thinks she could throttle him. “It wasn’t her fault,” Kitty snaps. “She couldn’t have saved him. No one could have. 

He turns to face her with a devastated look in his eyes, the kind of look he makes when he knows she’s right. “How did it happen?”

She shifts Vera in her lap. “We didn’t see, we were in the shelter. We heard the bombs getting closer, and when we heard the all clear…” she blinks a few tears from her eyes. She doesn’t mean to cry, and she feels ridiculous, crying over Tom’s father when he’s sitting beside her.

Tom shifts closer to her, and wipes her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Tom nods, running his hand over Vera’s head. “He died thinking I was gone. He didn’t know I was alright.” He draws his tongue between his lips. “But he’ll be happy now, with mum and that.”

“I hope so,” she says.

“And I didn’t leave things on a bad note,” he says, keeping his eyes on Vera, “like you told me. I shook his hand before I left.”

“See? When has my advice ever let you down?” she says, trying to sound as lighthearted as possible through the thick feeling in her throat.

Tom keeps his chin tilted down but he looks up to her. He looks more peaceful than he did this morning. His lips are settled in their natural curve, his brow is soft, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that he won’t allow to become more than a glisten.

“Never has,” he says with a smile.

He shuffles closer to her, cautiously cupping the side of her face like he’s forgotten how.

She instantly leans into him, bringing their foreheads together until she can feel his breath echoing over her lips.

It’s been so long since she’s felt him in the way she wants. She’s hardly given herself a moment to even realise that he’s here, that her months of anguish are finally done because he’s safe, he’s alive, and he still didn’t break his promise to her.

“I missed you,” she whispers. If she speaks any louder she worries her voice might falter.

Tom draws his thumb over her cheek and nudges his nose against hers. “Kitty,” he utters. His lips twitch like he can’t quite find the words he wants.

“I know,” she breathes. “I know.”

He angles his head a little before he leans in closer and presses a soft kiss to her lips, and her heart breaks a hundred times over. She feels his sadness in the tentative movements of his mouth, like he’s still scared, like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.

So she pours all her longing and reassurance into him, as far as she can without speaking or pausing for breath. She holds onto his neck and deepens their kiss with firm lips and a deft tongue. 

She wants to feel him, long after they’ve parted. She wants to remember how he feels, the warmth he gives her, the way his little hums make her feel weightless and set her skin alight.

Now, in this moment, the world feels perfect. 

Until Vera makes a whining noise that means she wants attention.

Kitty pulls away with a short gasp, moving Vera to her hip and she stands and tries to bounce her into content.

“She’s probably hungry,” Kitty says, and nods to the bag Lois dropped off earlier. “Her formula’s in there, bring it into the kitchen.”

Tom does as he’s told and pulls the tub out of the bag. He walks into the corridor first, and as Kitty goes to follow he stops, and turns to her.

“You look good with a baby by the way,” he says with a grin.

She scorns herself for the thrill it sends through her stomach. “Don’t, you’ll give my mam a heart attack.”

At 6 o’clock, they put the lights out for the blackout, with only the fading sunset to light the kitchen as Kitty makes a vegetable stew and spuds for dinner. Thankfully they have some beef stock she can throw in as well, which stops dad from complaining that “just veg doesn’t count as a meal.”

Evenings are tense and uncertain now. They all try to make small talk with each other over dinner, but silences are frequent and imposing. 

Once they’ve eaten, Kitty puts Vera to bed and mam and dad head upstairs shortly after, hoping to get as much sleep as they can before the sirens start.

Tom sits in the lounge, on a sofa by the window, keeping the curtains open just an inch, but all there is to see is black.

“It’s cloudy,” he says as Kitty appears in the doorway in her nightie. “Can’t even see the moon.”

She comes to join him, curling up into his lap and placing her head on his shoulder. “That’s good news for us.”

Tom wraps his arms around her and kisses her head.

The sky stays cloudy and quiet all night, no droning of planes, no sirens. 

All she hears is the sound of his breathing and his lips against her skin as he nuzzles into her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin.

“Did you miss me?” she finds herself saying.

Tom pauses and pulls his face away from her with a furrowed brow. “Do you really think I thought of anything else?” he says. “It was all that got me through, the thought of coming home to you.”

In the morning she wakes with a sliver of sunlight creeping over her eyes, still in Tom’s arms, still clinging to him. 

Lois comes to collect Vera before Kitty leaves for her shift at the shop.

“Is Tom with you?” Lois asks as kitty lowers Vera into the pram.

Kitty hesitates. “Yes,” she says, bracing herself for Lois to storm in and start shouting at him. 

He appears in the doorway, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m going to the churchyard,” Lois says to him, “if you’d like to see mum and dad.”

Tom looks to Kitty and she sighs, overemphasising the movement of her chest as she breathes. Don’t leave it on a bad note.

He looks back to Lois and forces a small smile. “Yeah.”

Tom stays with the Wheelans, sleeping in the boys’ bedroom, in the bed closest to the door. Each night, once Vera and her parents are asleep, Kitty steals into his bedroom and tucks herself into the space beside him.

“It feels funny like this, doesn’t it?” she whispers to him, brushing her lips over his cheek as she throws her arms around him and presses herself into his back.

“What, you being the one sneaking around?” he says, falling onto his back so she can drape herself over his bare chest.

“It’s exciting,” she says, kissing a path along his jaw and down his neck. “I don’t see why you got to have all the fun.”

“Made it worth your while, didn’t I?” She can hear him grinning as she reaches the hollow of his throat. She swipes her tongue over his skin and delights when he suppresses a grunt and grasps at her hips. 

She sits herself up, letting her nightgown hitch up to her hips as she starts to rock against him.

Tom slips a hand between her thighs and smiles when he swipes his thumb over her bare cunt. “Right little whore I’ve turned you into, hmm?”

Kitty braces herself against her chest and nods, as Tom presses into her, dragging from her entrance to her pearl.

“So fucking wet,” he whispers. “All for me?”

“All for you,” she breathes as he starts to circle over her most sensitive spot. “Fuck–”

Tom places a finger to her lips as he keeps working over her. “Shh, you have to be quiet, you know that.”

She nods again, dreamily, moving her hips against him, adding and withdrawing pressure to his movements, treading the line between pleasure and longing. Until she falls apart, shuddering, pressing her lips together tightly and snatching back the one wanton whimper that sounds in her throat.

“Good girl,” Tom snarls. His hips are bucking against her and his jaw is tight. “Good fucking girl.”

She wastes no time slipping his cock free from his briefs and sinks herself down onto his length. He’s done for with only a few rolls of her hips, pulling out before he finishes and spilling himself onto her stomach.

He’s so pretty when he comes, with a silent sigh, his jaw hanging open and his nostrils flaring. Every part of his body tenses, his abs, his neck, his shoulders, as he squeezes his eyes shut tight and throws his head back against the pillows. 

Another perfect moment, she thinks, bright and beautiful, and already slipping away.

He registers with the navy again, and in a few weeks he has his next assignment.

Before he leaves, Kitty insists on getting out Eddie’s camera (even though he’d kill her if he knew he went near it), and takes some photos of Vera for Tom to keep while he’s away.

She takes some of him too. They’re hardly high art– he wouldn’t stop laughing at his own snarky comments, but she manages one ‘serious’ one. 

His mouth is halfway to a smirk, his smile lines apparent around his mouth, but his eyes are dark and almost sinister. He hates it but there’s nothing he can do to stop her from keeping it in the envelope of one of his letters, under her pillow for safekeeping with the rest of the pieces she has of him.

He has leave in the new year, and then he’s back in October, just over two years since he first left.

By then Lois is gone. She had come into the shop, with a letter for Tom and Kitty in the pram. She had said she was going to leave her with Robina.

“Over my dead body you are,” Kitty said before she could think it through. Mam and dad were slightly horrified when she came home early from work with baby Vera in a pram and all of her belongings in a bag.

Vera is a right little character now, a stubborn but happy girl. When Tom comes back to Longsight, he stays with the Wheelans again, and he’s utterly devoted to his niece. When Kitty’s at work, he walks into the shop with Vera in his arms to buy her a bar of Cadbury’s ration chocolate. It’s awful and bitter, but it’s the only kind Vera has known and she treats it like gold dust. 

When Mr Gregory gives Kitty a few days off, she and Tom take her for walks to the park. It’s freezing, but she’s happy enough wrapped up in a coat and a woolly hat, squealing with delight when Tom picks her up and places her on his shoulders.

How remarkable are kids, that they can so easily forget about worries and fears, as long as they have something that keeps them happy.

Even with Douglas and Lois gone, she hopes Tom knows that something still remains.

Time slips away too quickly. Suddenly Tom’s in his uniform again, ditty slung over his shoulder. He takes Vera into his arms and hugs her tightly into his chest. “Be good for your aunty Kitty,” he says, “and take care of her until I get back.”

Vera nods frantically.

He says goodbye to dad like an old friend, and even mam has warmed to him a bit now. Kitty sees the way her mother looks between her and Tom, the knowing nod of her head. It’s acceptance, and she’ll take it.

“Shall we?” Tom says, taking Kitty’s hand and leading her through the door.

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, then a twenty minute ride into the city. She keeps a tight hold of Tom’s hand the entire way.

They settle in seats at the back of the bus. It’s the middle of the day, kids are in school and their parents are at work. Only a few other seats are filled.

“Thank you,” Tom says as the bus pulls away from the stop.

“For what?” Kitty says.

“For being there,” he says, “for looking out for dad when he was around, for taking care of Vera, and me.”

She wants to frown, but can’t bring herself to. “Of course,” she says, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. “Of course.”

Tom’s been assigned to HMS Prince of Wales, docked at Scapa Flow in Scotland. His train leaves within the hour, and the moment they step off the bus onto the busy streets of Manchester, she feels herself walking slower. 

Tom keeps going, letting her fall behind him slightly, but never letting go of her.

No matter how she tries to drag this out, she cannot stop time altogether and they eventually reach the train station.

She could spend an eternity in his arms, cheek to cheek, breathing along with the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I want to do right by you,” Tom says.

“What do you mean?” she mutters. 

They still hold each other close; she doesn’t think she could bear to look at his face.

“Once the war is over, I’ll save up my wages, get us a place of our own. It’ll just be the two of us.”

“And Vera,” she adds.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking his hand up and down her back. “I’ll get a proper job. You should do that clerical training you’ve always talked about.”

No more sneaking around. No more nights cut short when he has to leave her.

He pulls away from her, keeping his hands on her waist. “I know your parents don’t trust me and your brothers think I’m a no-good-thieving-bastard. But I love you, Kitty, and I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

“Once the war is over?” she says.

“As soon as.”

“Tom,” she sighs. She doesn’t want to imagine the possibility, or speak it into existence, but it’s still there. “What if you don’t come back?”

Tom smiles with a small hum. “I’ve died once before, didn’t stop me coming back to you, did it?”

Kitty believes him wholeheartedly.

Thursday 11th December, 1941

Vera’s being fussy about her nap again. No matter how much Kitty tries to hush her, rock her, or hum a few lullabies, she just won’t settle.

Eventually she tries just holding Vera close to her chest, letting the side of her little head nestle just over her heart. She stops crying almost immediately.

“How hard could it be to look after a baby?” she asked herself when she refused to let Lois leave her daughter with Robina Chase. Quite hard, as it turns out. 

The peace doesn’t last for long. Mam’s shoes come clattering down the stairs, the doorbell rings and Vera starts wailing again. 

“Oh come here,” mam coos, taking Vera from Kitty’s arms. “You get the door, I’ll see this one gets her nap, eh?”

Kitty takes a quick breath before she opens the door. Hearing Vera cry makes her want to cry too. 

The postman stands below the front step with a telegram in his hands.

“Catherine,” he says with a polite smile, “haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been… busy,” she says through Vera’s wails.

The postman hands her the telegram and she reads over the address: Lois Bennett, 27 Slade Grove, Longsight, Manchester, only there’s no house for it to be delivered to, and no Lois to take it.

She feels the tears start to prickle in her eyes as she waves him off, and when she shuts the door she can no longer stand. Suddenly she’s on the floor, her back against the door, unable to catch her breath as hot, stinging tears stream down her face and the telegram crumples under her fist.

She thinks maybe Vera keeps crying and mam calls her name, trying to get her to stand but she can’t. She just… can’t. A sinking feeling washes over her and keeps her pinned down, like the waves pummeling against the shore, over and over again. 

If there’s a telegram addressed to Lois, it can only mean one thing.

Tom.

Monday 24th December, 1945

The bus to Longsight stops outside the shop. She lifts Vera under the arms of her little red coat, onto the pavement, and takes a mittened hand in hers as they head inside. Mr Gregory sold it a few months ago and she doesn’t know the name of the new owners.

The woman behind the counter smiles down at Vera. “Aren’t you a gorgeous little madam?” she coos.

Vera rolls her eyes. “I’m not a baby, I’m five,” she says.

Kitty smiles to herself. “Bottle of sherry and a bag of Yorkshire mix, please,” she says. She crouches down beside Vera and spots a shelf of Christmas wrapping. “Go and pick out some ribbon for the bottle,” she whispers.

She pays for their items and Vera comes back with a bright red ribbon.

“Perfect,” Kitty says, and ties it into a bow around the neck.

As they walk towards Slade Grove, Kitty picks out some red sweets for Vera and a pear drop for herself. The rest she saves for later, finding she now prefers the sweets she never used to eat.

It’s nice and warm inside number 28. A Chorus of Christmas carols plays through the wireless from the kitchen, a backdrop to the bustle of the house. Mam is in the kitchen, making her final preparations for tomorrow’s dinner. Art helps her, albeit, his version of helping is pouring out gin and tonics. Dad, Eddie, Stevie and Connie are sat around the table, engrossed in a game of cards. But everyone stops when Vera comes bounding into the room, Kitty close behind her.

They each take their turns to smother her, and it feels good. Stevie practically jumps up and down as he hugs her, Art hands her a drink and Eddie hugs her the tightest. 

She manages a sip of her drink and places it on the table as she goes to greet her dad, still mulling over his hand of cards as he kisses her cheek. Then she goes to her mam, and hands her the bottle of sherry. 

“I chose the bow!” Vera proclaims proudly.

“And a lovely bow it is!” mam beams, placing the bottle amongst their Christmas stash of whisky, gin and dessert wine. “I have something for you, love,” she says.

“Oh?” Kitty asks as mam disappears into the front room. She comes back with a pot of poinsettias in a red pot, thick green leaves with bursts of blood red petals and golden seeds at their hearts.

“I thought we could put them out, tonight,” mam says.

Kitty opens her mouth to thank her, but she can’t. She nods as mam places her hand on her arm.

Even months after the war has ended, meat is still scarce, especially at this time of year, but mam had saved up her rations for a beautiful joint of beef, which she presents in the centre of the table.

It’s a cheerful occasion. The boys are rowdy, dad is quizzing Connie on her latest gig with her new band, mam is fussing over Vera.

Kitty watches them all. It’s hard not to feel like a ghost, an outlier, simply observing. Sometimes she thinks the others are still too scared to talk to her, in case she bursts into tears or shatters completely. She knows she won’t though. It’s Christmas. She’s supposed to be happy, surrounded by family and people she loves.

“We’re going to see her daddy for dinner tomorrow,” Vera says, stabbing at her boiled carrots.

“What’s Christmas dinner with Robina Chase like?” Stevie asks Kitty.

Her face freezes into a terrified smile to the others’ amusement. “No, it’s fine really,” she says. “Your grandma spoils you rotten, doesn’t she missus?”

Vera nods enthusiastically.

She’s such an easy girl to love. She has bright blue eyes, plump, rosy cheeks and dark brown curls, like her mother’s, kept in pigtails. But while her face is deceptively sweet, she has an awful habit for mischief and stubbornness. Kitty doesn’t mind that though. Girls should be stubborn, she thinks.

Stevie and Connie are expecting now. Dad insists it’s going to be a boy because he saw four magpies in the garden last week. They have a modest little house a few streets away and they’ve made it nice and homely. She’s had tea there and helped Stevie set up a crib for the nursery. 

After they’ve eaten, dad insists they all go to midnight mass, as he does every year, despite Kitty’s insistence that it’s much too late for Vera. Still, she puts her in a pretty blue dress and shiny black leather shoes, and makes Stevie promise he’ll be the one to carry her home.

The church is mostly shadows at night, a few candles and lamps doing their best to fight off the darkness and the cold. Vera hates it. She pulls her woolly hat over her ears, swings her legs and on three occasions asks “is he done talking yet?” She likes the hymns though, even if she doesn’t know the words, mouthing some kind of nonsense that has them all in fits of giggles.

And once it’s over, they don’t follow the path down to the street. Kitty leads the way, with the pot of poinsettias in her hands. Stevie follows behind her, carrying a sleepy Vera in his arms, curled into his chest.

She stops before the grave she first stood by seventeen years ago.

Josie Bennett

Douglas Bennett

and in loving memory of Thomas Bennett, 1919-1941

Kitty crouches down to lay the poinsettias down when Vera gives a little squeak in protest. “I want to do it!” she cries.

“Come on then, missus,” Kitty says.

Stevie lowers Vera and she rubs her tired eyes as she staggers to Kitty. She tries to take the pot but with her mittens she can’t get a good grip on it.

“Together?” Kitty asks.

“Yes please,” Vera says.

They place the flowers down together, making sure they don’t obstruct the names.

“There,” Vera says with a little huff. She reaches out and puts her hand on the stone, brushing over the names of her granny and granddad Bennett, and then she traces over the letters of Tom’s name.

Even seeing it written in stone, she doesn’t think it will ever truly sink in. 

A report said Tom had been in the makeshift aid centre on the main deck of the HMS Prince of Wales, when the final bomb hit. He could have run for the lifeboats. He would have had plenty of time. But he didn’t. He died to save his injured crewmates, men who would have never seen their families again.

For all the times he told her he would come back, for the life he promised they would make together, for all the nights she clung onto hope, she wanted to hate him for throwing it away.

She knows now that she can’t hate him. She could never hate him.

Vera falls back into Kitty’s arms. She catches her and places a gentle kiss to her soft cheek. “They would have loved you, you know,” Kitty says. “They would have loved that you’re brave, and funny, and that you drive everybody round the bend.”

Vera giggles and turns around, flinging her arms around her neck. “I love you, aunty Kitty,” she says.

Kitty hugs her tightly into her chest, with that strange sort of urge to just squeeze her and squeeze her and never let her go. “I love you too,” she whispers, so Vera won’t hear the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Vera manages to walk down to the gate before Stevie has to carry her, and by the time they get back to the house, she’s fast asleep.

Kitty takes her in her arms and carries her up to the little box room. Connie and Stevie have the other big bedroom, and Eddie and Art are roughing it on the sofas in the lounge.

She places Vera down in the bed, as gently as she can, and takes off her shoes and coat so she won’t have to sleep in them.

It’s almost like a ritual now, but every time she finds herself in her old bedroom, she unlocks the window and brushes her fingers over the scuff mark on the windowsill. 

Vera stirs slightly when she joins her, curling into Kitty when she places an arm around her. The bed is hardly big enough for the two of them, how she and Tom ever managed to fit seems somewhat miraculous. 

Tom Bennett should have been hers to keep. They should have spent all their savings on a little terraced house or a flat in Manchester, squabbling over the things husbands and wives argue about and making up between the bedsheets. In the winters they would have walked home from the pub through the snow, hand in hand, and huddled for warmth at night. In the summers they would have spent their evenings in the park with a punnet of strawberries, taking the train to the coast on the weekends, to Southport or Blackpool. Maybe they would have had kids of their own. She often pictures a little girl with big blue eyes and a bright smile. They might have named her Josie, after Tom’s mother, and Vera would adore her.

There is so little left of him now, the bomb that hit the Bennett’s house ensured that well enough. She would have liked to have kept his lighter, his wristwatch, maybe some of his shirts.

Instead, she finds other ways to remember him. She reads his letters every night tracing over his terrible handwriting, the imprint of the words in the paper and his fingerprint in a smudge of ink. And she has the photo she took of him on Eddie’s camera. She keeps it framed, proudly on display on the mantle in their flat in the city.

She feels him, in the smell of grass, the flick of a lighter, the smoke from a cigarette, whispered secrets between lovers and Vera Bennett’s laugh, the way she squints her eyes and shows her teeth, just like he did. 

Two decades of friendship and it wasn’t enough time. They should have known sooner, she should have knocked on his door more often and he should have spent less time getting into trouble. She should have told him to join the pacifists while it was still an option, she should have convinced him not to go away, she should have held him tighter and never, never have let him go.

In the end though, she doesn’t linger on the times they weren’t together. She remembers them being children together. She remembers the first night he climbed through her window. She remembers his warmth and his infuriating smirk. She remembers the first time they kissed and the nights they spent together, when she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. She remembers every time he told her he loved her, and she remembers every time she said it back.

She falls asleep to Vera’s fluttering breaths, the sound of the lads and Connie in the front room and the hymns playing on the radio.

The world is cruel and cold, but through it all she finds moments like these, when the tightness in her chest is replaced by something light and hopeful.

She clings to that feeling because tomorrow she’ll wake up surrounded by her family, and Vera’s little face will light up when she sees the gifts they’ve been saving for her. Dinner with Robina Chase will be worth it for the moments Harry will get with his little girl, and in the evening she’ll come home and laugh herself silly over glasses of whisky with her brothers. 

For all the grief she remembers how he loved her. She’ll keep clinging to that feeling because Tom Bennett was hers, if only just for a moment.

Disclaimer: I only skimmed through the episodes that Tom wasn’t in and don’t actually know what Lois’ deal was, so I’m taking some creative liberties here.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series taglist: @hanula18 @azxulaa @whoknows333

[lolasimms]

a lots gonna change pt.14

Summary: Married life isn’t great, infidelity ensues, and things change

next chapter

"Here Lila" Abby called out as she handed your daughter a paper plate with a piece of confetti cake smeared all over it. If you were being honest the piece was too big for your liking and you were sure that Lila would be leaving with a sugar rush. But special occasions called for special acceptions, this being one of them.

"Thanks Abby" Lila accepts the plate and bounds into the dining area to go and enjoy her sugary treat.

"Should I cut you a slice?" Abby glances up at you, her large hand gripping the icing covered knife.

"Sure, that'd be nice." You reply and she lowers the knife back into the white frosted cake, littered with rainbow sprinkles. Much like Lila's, she cuts you an abnormally large triangular piece of cake, placing it on the polka-dotted paper plate and then handing it to you. She awkwardly smiles, grabbing her own plate and then makes her way to the dining room.

Things were still a bit tense between you and Abby after the altercation at Joel's two weeks ago. You'd assured her that she was forgiven after a lengthy heart to heart, but she was still doubting you and beating herself up. Ever since said altercation, no words had been exchanged with your ex-wife, save for a few updates about Lila's school and pickups but that was it. And you hoped it stayed that way. You knew they were both partly at fault but Ellie had started the physical fight, and she hadn't even made the effort to offer a genuine let alone any apology.

It was Abby's birthday and her father had invited you over to his, insisting you bring Lila along to help the Andersons celebrate. The home sprung memories of familial and domestic bliss. Streamers strewn about the dining room, metallic balloons that displayed '26', radio hits that you're sure Jerry didn't even listen to, booming throughout the house and an assortment of different coloured balloons held together by ribbon.

With your plate of cake in hand, you made your way to the dining room, where Jerry had Lila sitting beside him, the both of them looking through an old chunky photo album filled with baby photos of Abby and others of her extended family. Lila was "ooohing" and "ahhing" whilst simultaneously letting out giggles. Your eyes met the blue orbs of your lover who finally gave you a genuine smile for the first time in a week. You stride towards Abby, taking a seat besides her and taking your hand in hers.

"I love you." You whisper as you smile at her, leaving a kiss on her cheek, immediately she warms up, her face tinting to a light shade of red. She leans into you, placing a chaste kiss on your mouth where she mumbles an "I love you too." You're both interrupted by Jerry, who clears his throat and Lila's quiet "eww." The two of you pull apart, sporting mischievous grins on your faces when Jerry shuts the photo album and announces.

"Okay Abs, time to open your gifts." Lila's immediately trailing behind him as he makes his way over to the living room and the two of you follow suit. You were sat on the arm of the grey sofa, while Abby had Lila in her lap. The five year old had been so excited to pick out Abby's gift that she'd insisted it be the first one she opened.

"You sure this isn't a bomb Lila?" Abby jokes as she shakes the box, holding it close to her ears. You and Jerry simply chuckle at Abby's playfulnesses, but Lila finds it to be the funniest thing ever. She's hunched over giggling while Abby tears the wrapping off the small box. When she opens the box she's met with a vintage field watch, one she’d been raving about for the past six months.

“Y/n, you didn’t!” She yells, turning to you with a smile on her face and you simply smile. She reaches up and kisses you. “Hey, I helped wrap it” Lila exclaims hating the takeaway of attention from her. “Thank you too Lila” Abby squished her cheeks and then places the watch on her wrist.

-

“Thank you for coming Ms. Lila, I’ll see you next time alright?” Jerry waves off a tired Lila who’s hands are swinging behind you as she’s splayed out in your arms. “Bye, Jerry.” She mumbles, letting out a yawn in the process. You walk her over to the car and sit her into her booster seat, clicking it in and then shutting the door. Abby and Jerry are stood at the front door chatting, when he motions for you to come over.

“Thank you for coming over Y/n and bringing sweet Lila, you raised an angel.” He smiles, playing with the hair on his chin. You warm up at the compliment and offer him a genuine smile.

“Thank you Jerry for having us, and for the food and cake.” Abby pulls you closer into her and smiles down at her dad. “Alright dad, we’re going to head Lila’s done for the day.” She takes the box of cake from his hands and hands you the car keys. “Alright goodnight you two and happy birthday again Abs.”

The drive back home is quiet, the car being filled with only sounds of the heater blaring and Lila’s soft snores. Abby has her hand on your thigh the whole way home as you drive, not daring to let go. The two of you basking in the silence. As you’re making a left turn, she gives your thigh two small squeezes causing you to look at her. She gives you a loving smile and then rubs you softly. She didn’t have to verbally say it but you knew it was another apology, no matter how many times you’d forgiven her, she still felt responsible for the fight and she wasn’t going to stop atoning for her mistakes until she felt her forgiveness was truly earned.

-

Despite her protests, you’d managed to get Lila into the bath once the three of you had arrived back home. She whined and whined but you knew if she didn’t have her bath she would get restless at night. Once bath-time was over, you’d taken her into her room, read her a story from the array that were shelved in her bookcase and then proceeded to read.

“Mommy stop.” You were mid-way through a sentence when she’d lifted her sleepy head to stop you from continuing.

“What’s wrong baby?” You question as you drop the book into your lap.

“There’s two characters, and you’re not doing Mr. Flippers voice right. Can Abby come read that part?” She asks, genuine concern over the inadequacy of your impression. You call out to Abby, who was in your bedroom and she immediately made her way to the Lila’s room.

“Everything ok?” She asks, her hair wet from the shower she’d just taken, clad in an oversized hockey tee shirt and plaid pyjama pants.

“Can you help mommy read to me?” Lila looks up from the tucked in cover of her quilt.

“Really?” Abby asks a grin coating her face and Lila nods adamantly. The five year old falls asleep not even half-way through the book. Her head resting on her little pillow, hands tucked under her cheeks.

You kiss her goodnight as Abby switches on her nightlight, the two of you exiting the room.

“She asked me to read her a bedtime story.” Abby smiles down at you and you grin widely, nodding your head. The two of you make your way into the bedroom.

-

“So, how’s 26 treating you so far? You ask her as you straddle her waist, her arms immediately grabbing onto your hips and squeezing tightly.

“Pretty good, though I know a way that could make it great” She smiles at you, her fingers grabbing the hem of your pyjama shirt and lifting it over your head.

“Mhm, what may that be?” You lift yourself off her thighs and shimmy your way out of your pyjama shorts and underwear. She immediately pulls you back down to straddle her when you’re interrupted by your phone ringing on the bedside table. Abby’s let’s go of you waist but you continue.

“Just ignore it.” You mumble as the two of you come together in a kiss. You’re grinding against her in tandem as she sloppily kisses down your neck, making her way to your chest, when the phone begins to ring again.

“Just take it, baby” She sits back against the headboard and you un-straddle her. You reach over to your phone, and to your surprise the contact reads Joel. You’re taken aback, seeing as Joel never called you this late at night, ever.

“Hello?” You hold the phone close to your ear, as you fidget with the comforter. Abby’s warm hands stroking your back rhythmically.

“Are you on your own right now, where’s Lila?” He questions and you’re taken aback by his forward ness.

“I’m with Abby, Lila’s asleep. Joel what’s going on?”

“Y/n, you need to get down to the Oakwood Hospital right now, it’s Ellie.”

taglist;

@moonlightdivine @maybe-cece @macaroni676 @sawaagyapong @katiemars @ellieseater @dakota-dream @joliettes @hebrokeimup @bratydoll @wakasaaa @catostrophiclesbian @dinas-a-bird @lazyunknownwerewolf @h3sitant-alien @ceo-of-ellie-simps @mechetegirl109 @kashoot-me269 @lonelyfooryouonly @ellieswifee @doodlebob-mp3 @ellieismami

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Hii! Can I please request a Tangerine x fem!civilian!reader where Y/n and Tangerine are in a serious relationship and Tan wants to introduce her to Lemon. Y/n is super nervous about meeting Lemon because she’s worried he won’t like her since she’s not an assassin, but Lemon is worried that she’ll be scared off because they’re assassins… Also Tan forgot to mention to Lemon that he told Y/n the truth about what they do and that she’s okay with it😂

hii! I love this, such a fun idea. thank you for your request, hope you like it💌

meeting Lemon (tan x f reader)

wc || 860

warnings || none really, some swearing and mentions of alcohol

masterlist + rules

taglist

“What if he doesn’t like me?” You say out of nowhere, fiddling with your fingers anxiously.

Tangerine’s hand moves from the steering wheel to your knee, offering comfort as his eyes temporarily left the road to look you over. “He will.” He reassures.

You and Tangerine were heading to Lemon’s house for a get-together dinner, this will be the first time meeting him and you felt sick to your stomach. This was a huge deal to all three of you, mainly because you all desperately wanted validation from one another, like you all valued each other's opinions.

You’ve met ex-partner’s parents in the past, but time, it feels way more nerve-racking, like you were on the final battle on Super Mario. You desperately wanted Lemon to like you, as he’s so important to Tan.

“How do you know?”

“Because... I do.” Picking up your hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a soft kiss on the back of it. “If in doubt, just talk about Thomas.”

“Wait- what? Who?” Eyes widened as you felt like you had missed a very important piece of information.

“The tank engine, you nob.” Chucking as he stared ahead.

“Oh my god, my brain almost exploded. I thought you forgot to tell me about someone.” Feeling slightly relieved. You knew of Lemon’s infatuation with Thomas, you were just too anxious to remember. “Do I lie?”

“About what? I’m not a mind reader, you can’t just say random questions and expect me to know, you pillock .” Laughing genuinely, looking over at you again.

“About what I do for work?”

“No.”

“What if I say I’m an assassin? Then he’ll definitely like me.”

“He’ll never believe that… you’re too sweet.”

Groaning to yourself.

Tan pulls up into the driveway, once he stops he turns to face you. “You’re going to be fine, he’s a lovable idiot most of the time.”

Tangerine knocked on the front door while you stood next to him tightly clutching the box of cake in your hands.

“Welcome brother, welcome my brother's girl, come on in.” Lemon's voice boomed as he greeted you both.

“Calm down, nobhead.” Tan wryly chuckles as you both walk past and into the house.

“Hi, it’s great to finally meet you.” You sweetly say. “I made this. It’s a lemon drizzle loaf, I thought it was appropriate.” Awkwardly laughing as you gave him the cake.

“Oh, I don’t like cake.”

Oh shit. “Oh- I um-“ Your heart fell out of your arse.

“Nah, I’m just kidding!” A deep laugh came from his chest. “And it’s lemon? That’s lovely, thank you.” His eyebrows wiggle as he looks over to Tan, as if he’s saying ‘you got a good one.’

In some weird and unexpected way, it actually made the situation lighter. “Thank god.” Clutching your chest at the initial panic.

“You dick.” Tangerine slaps Lemon’s shoulder.

“My bad. Alright, so everything’s all ready.” He extends his hand gesturing the way to the dining room. Tan pulls out your chair for you, then takes a seat down next to you while Lemon slumps into his opposite.

Conversation flowed easily over the course of dinner, maybe with a little help from a glass of wine or two. You had all finished eating a little bit ago, but hung around the table drinking and talking.

“What is it you do for work?” Lemon questions looking above his class.

“Oh, I um- have a small business.” You say while taking a sip of your drink to deflect.

“I love that, being your own boss. You got a cool girlfriend man.” Lemon sluggishly says to Tan, clearly had a little too much to drink. “Talking of bosses… at the office, he’s been busting my balls recently.”

You were a little tipsy, but not so much that your brain was off. Turning around to look at Tangerine as your eye’s squinted. “Office, eh? Been on any work trips lately? Johannesburg? Bolivia? Tokyo?” Lips turned into a smirk as you looked between the brothers.

“Uhm- huh?” Says a perplexed Lemon.

“I know what you guys do.” Bursting into laughter.

“What?! What do you mean.”

“That you’re contract killers.”

“That doesn’t scare you off?” Seems like Lem had sobered up from that shock you gave him.

Shaking your head ‘no’ turning around to smile at Tan.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Lemon glares at his brother, kicking him under the table.

“I did… wait- maybe I didn’t.”

“You’re a right dick for that. I’ve been worried all day that I’d scare you away.” Lemon looks at you, apologetically smiling at you.

“God no! I was actually worried too.” You simply say. “I didn’t think you’d like me because I’m not in the same line of work.” Wryly laughing.

“Fuck no. You’re too sweet for that shit.” Nodding at the cake, as if to prove his point.

The three of you continued to chat about random crap as you enjoyed dessert, it felt like you were on the verge of developing a friendship with Lemon, and you loved it- feeling like you and Tangerine had just made it through a big milestone in your relationship.

[causeitsagame]

Fic: The Cat in the Box (1/?)

Summary: After someone truly dies, Hajime takes it as his responsibility to keep everyone else alive. With an unexpected discovery, he realizes he can go even further than that. Warnings: Character death, obviously. (There will actually be a lot of character death, but most of it won't stick.) Ships: Assume basically everything. But like in the warnings section, most of them won't stick. I'm shameless and will focus the most on my favorite characters, though. Notes: This came about from considering another of the Games Of My Heart: Virtue's Last Reward. I spent about thirty seconds going "tee-hee silly crossover," then promptly started picturing a more serious thematic-only blend. And then I started figuring out how it'd actually work. (So, to be clear, this draws on some worldbuilding themes of the Zero Escape series, but no characters. I just want to play with their pseudoscience with the SDR2 cast.)

-----

Two years, five months, and sixteen days after the survivors of the Killing School Trip successfully extracted their friends from digital tombs, death nearly reclaimed one of them.

A bonfire roared orange and gold against the indigo of approaching night. Its light cast stark shadows across everyone there, where people sprawled comfortably on fallen logs or across the sandy beach. The ocean was still at high tide, and its rolling waves were occasionally loud enough to intrude on conversations.

Most conversations, at least. At her typical booming volume, Ibuki gestured grandly with a skewer laden with grilled meat and vegetables. "And she was like pow-pow-pow!"

Mahiru smiled weakly. "Please stop encouraging Akane to attack things. Especially things with such big and pointy teeth."

A few seats down, Hajime smirked faintly and closed his mouth. He'd been ready to launch a lecture of his own, but it didn't hurt to spread around the oversight.

Hiyoko grimaced as a bit of grilled pepper flew free of Ibuki's skewer. It rebounded off her cheek, leaving flecks of char. She sat up from where she'd been sprawled across Mahiru's lap. "Hey! Watch where you're throwing your food!"

"Yes, please just eat the food," Teruteru sighed.

"Can do!" Ibuki agreed, and chomped down with characteristic enthusiasm.

As much as he cared for everyone there, it was easier for Hajime to appreciate the night around them when Ibuki was busy eating. Exhaling, and letting stress flow with it, he focused on the renewed sounds of the ocean waves.

Two and a half years together had left room for the worst awakenings to reveal themselves. For optimism to surge over how smoothly recoveries might go. For resentment to fester when some paths were far harder and longer than others. It'd left time for fissures to form among the group and mend again, and for new habits to bring some people closer together. They were, in short, mostly out of crisis mode.

As they all slowly, achingly discovered who they were with lifetimes still ahead of them, Teruteru had suggested these regular bonfires. At them, everyone saw everyone, at least once per week. It had been a welcome suggestion, Hajime thought as he watched Akane proudly describe the animal she'd defeated, ignorant of the glower Gundham directed in her direction. No one wanted to lose track of anyone.

A moment later, mild concern buzzed at the base of Hajime's skull. He didn't hear anything wrong, nor did he see anything amiss. The bonfire still cast dancing shadows across his friends, but even correcting for its unsteady light, he couldn't make out any threat. What, then had—

Panic slammed into Hajime as he saw Ibuki silently clutch at her throat, and he realized why it was so terrible that he wasn't hearing anything. Food fell to the ground, ignored, as he hauled her off the fallen palm trunk. Gripping Ibuki from behind, Hajime balled his fists around each other and began to apply pressure in short, sharp jerks just below her ribcage. The body in his arms was tense with animal terror, made worse by the pain he was inflicting on her, but he didn't dare stop.

Finally, blessedly, he heard a wet, gasping cough erupt. An oversized hunk of meat flew from Ibuki's mouth and splatted against the sand. She inhaled, which dissolved immediately into frantic wheezing. I just nearly died, the girl in his arms clearly realized, and as she turned around, Hajime drew Ibuki into a reassuring hug.

Over her shoulder, he could see the rest of the group rising from their seats. Teruteru stared at the lump of meat like he'd been the one to nearly kill Ibuki with his own hands, and Nekomaru and Mahiru both took uncertain steps forward, probably wondering how they could help.

"Mahiru," Hajime mouthed over Ibuki's shoulder, not wanting to shout into the poor girl's ear. Thankfully, Mahiru took his meaning and hurried up close. At a whisper, he finished, "Can you and Mikan stay with her?" It only made sense to have the nurse there with Ibuki. At the same time, it also seemed wise to have another girl there in the room; Hajime wasn't sure how much lingered in Ibuki's memories about the last time she'd choked.

Mahiru nodded shakily and pulled the girl into a fresh embrace. "Hey, hey, we've got you," she cooed. "Everything's okay. There was a problem, but Hajime fixed it. I bet your throat hurts a lot, but it can get better, now. It's all fixed."

Ibuki nodded, but inside Mahiru's grip, she trembled at how close death—true death—had suddenly come to her.

As Mikan came up on Ibuki's other side and began asking gentle, probing questions to assess the extent of any injuries, Hajime felt a hand clasp his shoulder. "Nicely done," Nekomaru said with audible relief. "In the dark, I didn't even notice her having a problem!"

"Nor did I," Peko said, her stance tense and expression full of regret. "I should have."

"You were way at the end of everyone." Fuyuhiko gripped Peko's arm with a reassuring squeeze. "No reason you would have seen her, right? But Hajime did, so it's fine."

But Hajime did, so it's fine.

There was a problem, but Hajime fixed it.

Exhaling, Hajime felt the worst spikes of adrenaline leave his body. Their lives could sometimes feel like a compass without its needle. But on other days, Hajime could actually contribute a bit of that Ultimate Hope expectation that forever trailed behind him like a shadow. The world beyond these waves still needed help, and they'd spend the rest of their days offering what they could. But at least here, he could reliably keep things going.

Twelve nights later, Nekomaru died.

There was no easy fix, no chance for a last-minute save. There was only Akane's agonized scream as she tried to wake him up, and instead found him peaceful and cooling where he lay. Sonia tried to pull her back, but even with Fuyuhiko and the Imposter's help, the woman refused to move.

"Why?" Kazuichi asked in a tiny, childlike voice. He sounded desperately confused, like he didn't understand why he couldn't wake up from what had to be some terrible nightmare. This can't be real, echoed many of the stunned, hollow-eyed faces around them. This can't be real.

The few who'd heard about Nekomaru's heart condition looked different. Their pain and regret was softer, more wistful. If no one had known to expect this, then Nekomaru had been hiding how he felt in the lead-up to the end.

Eventually, Akane was pried away from Nekomaru's side. But while most of the group encircled her to offer what little comfort they could, the two who'd known the most about Nekomaru's health walked silently away.

"Was there…" Mikan swallowed hard as guilt choked her. "Was there anything we could have done?"

Hajime studied the ocean. Gentle white cumulus clouds dotted the sky, dappling the water below with enormous rounded shadows. Between them, sunlight glimmered off rippling waves. Seabirds swept across the ocean in huge, searching arcs, and cried to their companions as they passed briefly over the beach. "No."

Nekomaru needed an intricate cocktail of drugs to limit his symptoms, which Hajime had mostly managed to obtain. Either through Makoto's help, his own synthesis work, or a few targeted visits to facilities that wouldn't (much) miss those bottles, the chemical side of Nekomaru's treatment had been handled.

But once the right chemical approach had been found, Nekomaru still needed a heart transplant. He'd been aware of that ever since school, when doctors were still trying to figure out the precise treatment plan needed for his massive, yet desperately vulnerable physique. And then… and then everything fell apart, and if Nekomaru felt his heart weakening in his chest, he probably welcomed it.

They all pieced themselves back together after the world ended, but that clock kept ticking. There were no transplant centers here, and some of mankind's greatest villains would never have the hope of a donated organ offered to them. Nor were there accessible facilities clean or sterile enough to manufacture an acceptable synthetic substitute. And so the clock ticked, and ticked, and eventually, it ran out.

There had been a cardiothoracic surgeon in some year at Hope's Peak, apparently, because Hajime knew exactly the steps he would have taken to remove a failing heart and implant a working one. But a certain path had led them all to this beach, and that path offered no chance to obtain what Nekomaru had needed to stay alive. Even the greatest surgeon alive couldn't perform a transplant operation without the transplant.

"No," Hajime quietly repeated as he watched more clouds roll in. The weather might turn toward a storm, soon. "There was nothing we could do."

The world's Ultimate Hope, it seemed, had his limits.

* * *

Nearly a month later, Hajime looked up from the computer panel under his fingertips. "Once I bring it down, the security system will automatically reset in twenty minutes."

"Shouldn't be a problem," the Imposter said, reviewing the facility layout. "We can get to the room in under eighty seconds."

"You're sure?" That felt awfully precise for a building they hadn't personally seen.

"We've done a lot of these missions," Peko reminded him, pinning her braid into a tightly coiled bun. "We have the timing down well. With so much leeway, Hajime, you should first take the time to see if there are any other rooms that should be investigated. We won't get another chance at this building."

"Don't borrow trouble," Fuyuhiko grumbled as Hajime leaned back in to study the facility map.

Most of the Remnants were still learning how to best help a world that rightfully hated them. Fuyuhiko and Sonia, though, had settled quickly on managing the group's logistics, both well aware that their talents didn't lie in field operations. They were the ones who'd tracked down exactly which plutocrats were taking the most advantage of the wounded world, and where they kept the resources they'd greedily stockpiled.

They also came up with cover stories. When one of those would-be profiteers tried to ship a train's worth of grain through a starving countryside, the Remnants of Despair 'tried to hijack the food for their own nefarious ends.' But that hijacking attempt was (deliberately) foiled, and rather than being stolen by them or sold for grossly inflated profits, the food was looted by nearby, needy towns.

As Sonia and Fuyuhiko predicted, the local news cheerfully reported that the Remnants of Despair had been foiled, and everyone else's world grew a bit brighter. Few things bolstered people's spirits like beating the bad guys.

Fuyuhiko was the one who'd located this latest stockpile of goods, after carefully backtracing some black market drugs to their source. Unlike Nekomaru's specific but otherwise obtainable medicine, these experimental chemicals were far rarer, and kept on a much tighter leash. But, as near as Hajime could tell, this stockpile of drugs was the only chance left for Nagito.

As the security scan kept adjusting itself on Hajime's console, Fuyuhiko cast a worried look at it, and then at the other people there. "That looks like a lot more than they usually put in these security systems. You're absolutely sure you need to head in there?"

Hajime felt his gut twist he studied the Imposter and Peko, and then reviewed the monitor again. Though both of them clearly accepted the risk they were taking, Fuyuhiko was right: this was far more dangerous than usual. He was about to ask more of them than he ever had before.

Noting his expression, Peko calmly asked, "Is there a reason you pushed Fuyuhiko to find these drugs, Hajime?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"What is it?"

Hajime bit his lip. Memories flooded back with horrible, audible precision: an arrhythmic click clack clack as Nagito's metal fingertips stopped cooperating. Nagito's nervous system was now struggling inside a dying body that had beaten every supposed deadline imposed upon it. But if his nerves could no longer properly control that prosthetic, then other parts would also inevitably fail. Electrical signals would no longer travel down his nervous system with sufficient precision to fill his lungs with air, or make his heart beat. Another clock was ticking down its last moments. "These drugs, so far as I can tell, are about the only chance left to keep Nagito alive. He says he's been dying for a while, now, but…"

"But now it's finally happening," the Imposter gravely finished.

Fuyuhiko grimaced, but said nothing.

"So our options are to put ourselves at some serious but brief risk," Peko clarified, "or to certainly watch Nagito die."

Fuyuhiko's grimace deepened.

"Right," Hajime admitted. "It's column A or column B. Those are our only options."

"Then of course, we'll retrieve the drugs." The Imposter smiled faintly. "It's not even a question."

Peko nodded, certain and calm.

Sighing, Fuyuhiko looked around the small control building they'd commandeered. A helicopter they'd similarly claimed sat at a spot distant enough to not catch the facility's attention, but close enough to make an escape after the heist. Right now, they were in an unremarkable concrete chamber adjacent to some unremarkable concrete halls, but some enormously complicated biometric scanners blocked those hallways from the rest of the facility. Once they shut those scanners down, a deadly clock would start ticking. "Can you give us a second?"

Peko and the Imposter looked at each other, surprised, but nodded and stepped away.

Hajime frowned. "What's up?" Two expressions warred on Fuyuhiko's face, and he recognized both of them.

Even so, Fuyuhiko needed a few quiet moments before acknowledging one of those emotions: sympathy. "It's not your fault, you know. Nekomaru. There was nothing that could be done."

In return, Hajime took a few moments to reply. "I know. It just… it doesn't make it feel any better."

The sympathy in Fuyuhiko's good eye deepened. Now that everyone was awake, Hajime was blessed with a bounty of friendship. The Imposter was a rock in stormy seas, always certain while others faltered. Mahiru led the conversations that others would rather avoid, but were necessary for the tiny world they were trying to hold together. Everyone had their own light they brought to the group, and like the colors in a rainbow, he wouldn't willingly give up any of them.

But if Hajime had to pick a single ear to hear him, or a single voice to talk to, it'd be the man in front of him. Fuyuhiko's notoriously private personality only truly opened up for Peko and Hajime. In good days, and many bad ones, that friendship felt like a blessing. Right now, though, it left Hajime feeling like an insect pinned to a card for study. Fuyuhiko knew him too well.

"It 'doesn't feel any better' because you don't actually believe it," Fuyuhiko decided. "You still think that there's something else you could have done."

Hajime considered arguing, but didn't bother. "It's just…"

"Don't say that goddamn 'Ultimate Hope' word, or I swear I'll end this mission."

"Ultimate Hope is two words."

"Fuck off." Fuyuhiko sighed and ran a hand across his face, then adjusted the eyepatch he'd bumped out of place. Now, instead of sympathy, blunt realism filled his voice. That was the other thing Hajime had seen in his expression. "We're all going to die, you know. Eventually."

Grimacing, Hajime wondered, "Is this supposed to be a pep talk?"

"It's supposed to be a 'don't throw away lives' talk." With another heavy, meaningful stare, Fuyuhiko studied Hajime. "Can they actually get these damn wonder drugs? You've seen the security protocols and you know how the team operates. If we're only here because you feel guilty over Nekomaru, and there's not a real chance of success, I'm calling this off."

Hajime answered with silence. He rolled his shoulders, hoping that'd throw off the sharp tension that had developed at the base of his neck. It didn't work.

"Nagito's next on the chopping block," Fuyuhiko murmured with less bite to his words, but no less sincerity. "These drugs can push that timeline out for him, sure, but… everyone's going to die. Eventually. But if you insist on an impossible run because you still feel guilty over Nekomaru, and Peko's the next to go, instead…" Fuyuhiko trailed off, not needing to finish for Hajime to understand his meaning: it'd feel like a betrayal deep enough to ruin every type of relationship they had.

Hajime stood there in silence for a while, and then looked back to the security panel.

Fuyuhiko was right. If Peko and the Imposter tried to do this run, they'd probably wind up dead. Maybe they could have done it with their typical third, maybe, but Akane had always been a wildcard. Highly capable, but a wildcard, and she still wasn't in the right mindset to focus on any serious mission. And so, they'd come with just the two of them.

If Hajime insisted on sending them in there to give Nagito a few more years, he'd likely be trading two lives for one. And he'd be doing it only because of his useless, misdirected guilt over Nekomaru.

Dammit, Fuyuhiko knew him too well.

But there was another way, Hajime realized, and straightened his stance. "It'll work. Zero question."

Unconvinced, Fuyuhiko raised an eyebrow. "What changed? 'Cause you sure as hell didn't look that confident a second ago."

"Simple. I'm going in, too."

Fuyuhiko's eye widened.

Even though Hajime was the most capable of them—the strongest, the fastest, with the most skills at his disposal—Fuyuhiko never planned any mission that put him on the field. Sonia had, at first, but then Fuyuhiko took her off for a long talk. Though Sonia never said anything, she too began putting Hajime in support roles: disrupting communications, overriding systems, electronically commandeering vehicles.

The reason for their concern was obvious: Hajime was the world's most valuable lab rat. If he were seen on the field, it wasn't just that he'd be at risk of the horrible fate of re-capture. His mere presence could make their enemies decide that it was worth rerouting all their resources in his direction. Situations could abruptly change for the extreme worse, far beyond what Fuyuhiko or Sonia had planned for.

Fuyuhiko spat, "If that's your solution, then I'm pulling the mission."

"No, you're not."

"Everyone agreed that when we do a mission, you all listen to me and Sonia. Well, this is my mission, so you listen to me, Hajime. You are not going in there."

Hajime reached over and tilted the security panel in Fuyuhiko's direction. "I am going in there, because I need to crack open room 2-C."

Uncertain, Fuyuhiko glanced at the panel. "The drugs are in 2-F."

"Right. According to the Imposter, we can be in 2-F in under eighty seconds. I'll have plenty of time to check the other room."

Barely contained anger left Fuyuhiko twitching where he stood. Even after years, he never did well with being challenged, and being simultaneously worried about Peko and Hajime only worsened his mood. "Then what's in 2-C?"

"It's the tech that let this facility manufacture those drugs in the first place. With it, we won't have to make any more runs for Nagito. We could have made our own stockpile for Nekomaru. And we'll be prepared for anything else that happens to anyone," Hajime lied.

Or maybe that wasn't actually a lie; the massive power supply leading into room 2-C could be for some amazing drug synthesis process. But they were about to break into a facility run by one of the world's leading technocrats-slash-plutocrats, and room 2-C's electrical network must make it the beating heart of that facility. Their target was someone who kept food out of babies' mouths and manipulated governments to his whims. Whatever technology he used to keep himself on top would certainly do better in others' hands, right?

"Shit," Fuyuhiko decided. "Review the security protocols again to see how fast they can notice you. And check to see how quickly they can get any reinforcements here!"

Hajime did, and nodded. "It's doable. Instead of having a deadline of the security system resetting in twenty minutes, we can expect a much bigger threat response. But their absolute top speed mobilization would be twelve minutes."

The others had returned to hear that, and the Imposter nodded calmly. "It does sound doable."

"Shit," Fuyuhiko spat, and stared daggers at the security panel. "Goddamn fucking shit. If you get yourselves killed by being the world's biggest dumbass, I'm pissing on your fucking corpse."

Hajime smirked. "Love you, too."

"Fuck off. You'll all head straight to the helicopter when you come out. I'll have it ready to lift off."

"Affirmative." Peko sounded as calm as the Imposter had. If the two of them really had controlled their emotions that much, it was a neat trick; Hajime's heart sped in his chest. "Hajime, we're ready to begin at any time."

"Right." Hajime hesitated. He wasn't used to being in the field, and it felt like he should correct to, "Affirmative." He really didn't have experience on the ground like the two of them, and this would be one hell of a learning curve. He was about to send them all two hundred feet into the air without a net, and then he'd make it worse by chasing down whatever was behind the door to room 2-C.

As he lifted his hands to begin the security override process, Hajime's eyes flicked momentarily to the scars running along his arms. Circular marks for countless IV lines, until they'd realized they should instead install a permanent intravenous port on their subject's chest. Faded but still-ragged scars where they'd asked their subject to measure his enhanced strength, and didn't expect him to actually punch through metal. The scars across his forehead and his discolored eye were the most dramatic showcase of what had been done to Hajime, but his entire body was marked by the Kamukura experiment.

There could be some very, very dangerous things that were shoved into a room and left to rot behind security.

Even so, Hajime suddenly felt like he had to do this. Whether his mind had run some sort of higher level calculation or simply filled with raw, unpolished hope, he could not leave without whatever sat in that room. And so, his hand tapped the console and brought down the facility's security.

A clock began ticking.

"Come on," the Imposter instantly ordered, and they ran for the facility doors. Fuyuhiko bolted in the other direction, toward the helicopter.

One long hallway later, Hajime frowned at the biometric scanners barring their progress. Though the Imposter reached for a nearby keypad, Hajime pushed in front of them and instead ripped away an unlabeled panel. One colored wire behind that panel was pulled loose, then two, then five. Hajime rapidly adjusted each wire into a new position, then slammed the panel back into place.

Peko's eyebrows raised as the doors slid open. "Estimated timeline down to fifty-five seconds," she said while slipping through the narrow gap. Hajime and the Imposter followed her as the doorway widened.

Though this facility was one of the most protected places on the planet, run by one of its richest men, it was best described as 'functional' and little more. This sector was nothing but a bleak warren of concrete tunnels lit by flickering fluorescents. It didn't feel like it could hold anything astonishing, and yet, Hajime saw a sign for room 2-C and marked it in his memories in flashing neon lights. Soon.

By the time they caught up with Peko on the path to room 2-F, she'd already dropped one guard to the ground. Even though this facility's owner had caused countless deaths by withholding food and medicine, she'd used a non-lethal hold on his employee. Applying pressure to the carotid artery was an efficient way to knock someone out, and all three of them rushed forward to repeat that move on every guard in-between them and their goal.

"Target acquired," Peko soon reported as the Imposter carefully retrieved the vials of experimental drugs. Though they couldn't stay out of refrigeration for long, a cooler full of ice waited on the helicopter. Based on the number of vials, Nagito probably had another two years, and finding another supply would further extend that timeline.

"Okay," Hajime briefly said as the Imposter tucked away their prize. "Follow me."

His feet pounded along the corridor they'd come down, each step echoing loudly through this concrete tomb. Six more guards had to be dropped along the way. The alert had gone out, and more foes were already coming.

Even with the security system down, the door to 2-C remained locked. "It must be on another circuit," Peko sighed. "Hajime, we might not be able to—"

He gripped the door handle, and ripped free the hardware with one firm pull.

"You do change the mission calculus," the Imposter admitted as they hurried into the room, only for a bullet to ricochet near Peko's ear.

"Get back," Hajime snapped, and instinctively reached for an array of USB drives on a nearby desk. Though this room looked like the rest of the concrete facility, it was filled with computer servers rather than medical supplies. What exactly did this room hold, and why had its staff barricaded themselves in here with high-powered guns?

Peko grimaced as she and the Imposter ducked behind another desk. "Hajime, don't—"

Ultimate Ninjutsu, Class 22. (Some part of Hajime's memories lectured that the student had wanted to be known by that, and not as an Ultimate Ninja.) As more shots rang out, his hands instinctively flicked the USB drives like throwing stars. Each found a bullet, and exploded in a rain of metal and plastic.

"Shit!" one of the employees yelled. "The software!"

It was the distraction he needed. As they yelled about whatever had just been destroyed, Hajime was able to push further into the room. Every employee hidden between rows of server racks soon revealed themselves. They all looked like scientists, rather than the trained guards in the halls, and they were much easier to drop.

As Hajime lowered the last employee to the ground, he became aware of two sets of footsteps coming up behind him. "Hajime," the Imposter breathed, sounding shocked. "You—"

"They're superficial," Peko decided. "Still, you shouldn't have taken that risk, Hajime. Finish your work quickly, and let's go."

Superficial? …Oh.

Looking down at himself, Hajime studied the bloody spots spreading across his shirt. His brain had calculated the perfect pattern of movement through the facility, but apparently, it had allowed for a half-dozen mild wounds as payment for reaching his goal. As he'd willingly turned himself over to his instincts, he didn't even remember hearing those shots fired, let alone feel their impacts. "Right. Let's go."

Twenty seconds more, and he found his goal hidden among the server racks. Whatever this unique computer was, it didn't look like anything Hajime was familiar with. Ribbons of pure gold ran through it, rather than typical plastic-shielded wiring. It was also studded with various elemental plugs that he couldn't recognize at a glance, but knew weren't used in any normal electronics.

"What is it?" the Imposter wondered.

"I don't know, yet," Hajime admitted, even as he reached for the power cables.

Whatever it was, it was a hell of a lot heavier than it looked. Hajime grunted as he managed to pry it off its stand, finding that he needed both arms to grip the toddler-sized machine. "You two are going to have to handle any guards."

Peko nodded, a sharp jerk. "That's fine, we're near the exit. Let's hurry."

Peko and the Imposter had to bring down another dozen guards during their exit. Hajime's estimate of their safe mission timeline had assumed that he'd be able to fight, too, but the weight of this computer had turned him into only a delivery boy. He winced at each new blow as it landed, but fought back his instincts to help; far stronger instincts ordered him to hold onto whatever was in his arms.

When they ran through the command room and exited into the earliest hours of dawn, a few shudders of relief ran through Hajime. More came after they scrambled into the waiting helicopter, and he finally, wholly relaxed as the city's details faded into the distance below.

At the controls, Fuyuhiko let out a visible sigh. They'd made it.

Right. The first priority was to get Nagito's vials into the cooler, and the Imposter did so with great care. Fragile glass softly clinked against the ice, despite that care, but none broke. That was lucky; each of those vials probably equaled another month of Nagito's life. With that in mind, Peko and Hajime secured the cooler against the wall, so that it wouldn't jostle under any turbulence. They had a long flight ahead.

Adrenaline took a while to fade. With that fading panic and the distraction of Nagito's medicine, they were five minutes into the air before Hajime remembered his extra prize. As the field team studied their peculiar new computer, Fuyuhiko wondered from the pilot's seat, "What the hell is that thing?"

"I don't know," Hajime admitted. "Hey, need any help flying?"

"I wouldn't turn down someone keeping watch on the radar."

As Hajime moved for the front of the helicopter, Peko cleared her throat. "Let me," she murmured. "We don't want to distract our pilot."

"Distract?" Hajime echoed, only to look down after Peko gestured toward him. Ah, right. This was a large helicopter, and so they weren't easily visible in the far back. But if Hajime came up beside Fuyuhiko, then Fuyuhiko would certainly notice the drying patches of blood all over Hajime's clothing. And he'd get pissed. "Gotcha."

"He's going to yell at you for this later, you know," the Imposter wryly murmured as Peko made her way to the co-pilot's seat.

"Fuyuhiko can yell at me all he wants… after we've landed," Hajime replied, just as wryly. "Okay, time to figure out just what this thing is."

"Do we also want to wait on that until we've landed? What if turning on the system interferes with electronics?"

"Fair point," Hajime allowed, studying the odd hardware he'd carried out of that billionaire's compound. It was nothing he recognized. Still, with all the knowledge crammed into him, he was certain that he could figure it out… eventually.

Even so, seeing such an odd device reminded him that knowledge had kept moving since Hope's Peak had measured some talents. And beyond that, not every talent in existence had attended the school. He'd actually need to investigate this thing to make any sense of it. That was unexpected, and a little exciting.

Minutes later, Hajime looked down at where he'd idly shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" the Imposter echoed.

"Hmm," Hajime repeated, and pulled his hand free of its pocket. His fingers lightly gripped one USB stick, taken from room 2-C. "Apparently, I didn't throw all of them." With his talent-fueled instincts firmly in the driver's seat, Hajime hadn't remembered shoving this unneeded bit of 'ammunition' into his pocket and out of the way.

The Imposter studied that USB stick with deep thought, then met Hajime's gaze. "When the other drives were destroyed, didn't the employees mention… software?"

Hajime grinned. No, in the rush of instinct and adrenaline, he didn't remember hearing that. But it was exactly what he'd hoped for. "Do we have a laptop anywhere on this helicopter?"

Shortly, they looked at the computer they'd found in storage. Its power supply was disconnected from the helicopter, and its network card disabled. Whatever program they might be about to launch, they weren't going to risk it disrupting the helicopter's flight. "All right," Hajime said, and clicked the USB drive into position. "Let's see what they were doing."

The Imposter scanned the filenames that popped up, then frowned in thought. "It's… apparently a quantum computer. Is that so unusual?"

Hajime considered the files in front of him. "Not especially. They're pretty rare, but it's just a computer that's able to perform calculations of greater complexity by leveraging manipulations of quantum entanglements and superpositions."

The Imposter looked at him sidelong. "Ah. Of course."

Hajime shrugged. There had been enough talents at Hope's Peak to know that much, at least.

"Well, we could certainly do with a supercomputer," the Imposter continued, turning back to study the device. "With one, I'm sure that Sonia and Fuyuhiko would be able to identify many more opportunities to perform our own unique kind of… assistance."

"Right," Hajime murmured as he continued clicking through files. The same voice that had told him to visit room 2-C now insisted that there was more to discover, and his fingers kept tapping down the list of filenames. On impulse, he opened one and began reading.

It took him three tries to understand what he was seeing, and not for lack of ability. It was simply that impossible to believe. "This is… this isn't how a quantum computer normally works," Hajime croaked.

"Hmm?"

Hajime swallowed hard. "Normally, quantum computing takes advantage of matter behaving as both a particle and a wave. That uncertainty leads to enormous potential, if it can be harnessed."

The Imposter studied him. "And what does this device do, then?"

Hajime reread the file a fourth time before answering. This couldn't be possible, and yet… "With this computer, the uncertainty it's harnessing… the simultaneous states of existence that powers it.. it doesn't come from how matter naturally behaves."

"What does it do, then?" the Imposter repeated.

"Timelines." Hajime turned and stared at the computer lined with rippling gold. "It's accessing different timelines."

"Different timelines?"

"That's what the software says," Hajime helplessly confirmed. "This computer is apparently so powerful because it's also calculating information across other timelines. Realities. Whatever you want to call them."

"Well, then." The Imposter blinked at the computer, befuddled. "That's quite a prize we retrieved, then. Although I'm not exactly sure what we'll do with it, I'd rather have in our hands than his."

"Right," Hajime murmured. "Definitely."

Other timelines.

But a certain path had led them all to this beach, and that path offered no chance to obtain what Nekomaru had needed to stay alive.

Other timelines.

Other timelines.

Staring at the rippling rivers of gold, Hajime heard his pulse speed in his ears. He fixed things, didn't he? That was his job.

Other timelines.

He fixed things.

Other timelines. Other timelines. Other timelines.

He fixed things. Ultimate Hope. Other timelines. He fixed things.

"Hajime?" The Imposter nudged him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Hajime whispered, and turned his attention back to the software code. "I'm great."

[i-hug-exploder-shanks]

Hai! I saw u might be taking requests for characters, and I was wondering if you might do something for Shaxx? Maybe a Solar female or gender neutral titan and maybe something that’s fluffy? Maybe our guardian got hurt and needs a bit of down time, and who better than with our Crucible?

My character is a solar Titan and I too love and adore Shaxx! Thank you for the prompt! I wrote this like a reader insert using 'you' for the character. Also a bit of Saint and Osiris tossed in. I have some other Shaxx things I'll be posting soon too! Please enjoy!

"IF YOU KEEP DYING ITS BECAUSE YOU HAVEN'T THROWN ENOUGH GRENADES!" Shaxx's booming voice filled the courtyard of the tower startling a few new lights, causing one of them to fall off an edge they had been peering over curiously. 

Saint snorted. Warlock behavor. A titan would have thrown themselves off the tower with purpose. The slight grin it brought him faded as he approached the crucible handler's domain though. He wished he had a better reason for being there. 

"Lord Shaxx you are scaring the new lights again. That one fell off the tower in fear of your mighty voice." He stated, gesturing back at the resurrected Guardian who eeped in embarrassment and hid behind their buddy. 

"Death is a learning opportunity for a Guardian! Hopefully they learn which side of the railing they prefer to stay on." Shaxx laughed unapologetically.

"What brings you to me today Saint? Did you want in on some of the crucible bets being run? Or are you intrested in a bout yourself?" He asked cheerfully. Saint shook his head. 

"Ah nothing quite so fun today unfortunately. The Guardian is unwell. She was helping Osiris with some research and it has led to her being infected with some sort of flu her ghost can't heal. Osiris says she should heal from it naturally but she is quite miserable in the mean time." He admitted.

"The Guardian? No wonder she hadn't come to see me. No matter. After this match is finished I'll go find her. Thank you for the news." He said clapping Saint on the shoulder avoiding the spiked pauldron. 

"Of course. This also will allow me to convince Osiris to get some rest and not feel so guilty. It is not solely for your benefit." He chuckled but headed back feeling pleased he was correct in his assumptions over the relationship between Crucible handler and the Guardian. 

"IF YOU HAVE A ROCKER LAUNCHER THEN YOU SHOULD USE IT! ARE YOU AFRAID OF YOUR OWN POWER GUARDIAN?" 

A booming shout followed him and he grinned. He'd have much to tease the guardian about later once she was feeling better. 

Curled up on the couch and wrapped in a blanket with a box of tissues on one side and a fire extinguisher on the other the Guardian sniffled pathetically. You had been helping Osiris study some new variant of thrall when the thing had, as usual, exploded into goop all over you. It was disgusting and smelled bad and was slightly corrosive- of course. The hive were always smelly and gross and slightly corrosive. You really needed to stop taking missions dealing with them. 

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that some of it got in your mouth. Just the thought made you want to purge herself with solar fire from the inside out.

Turns out, some sort of weird alien bacteria was there and so by the time you got cleaned up and swore to be like your partner and never take your helmet off again the symptoms had set in.

Fever, check. Runny and stuffy nose at the same time somehow? Check. Sneezing flames out your nose like some sort of solar fueled dragon? Apparently also check. 

Osiris had thankfully not been standing in front of you when you found that last one out. The last thing you wanted was to have to explain to Saint that you accidentally murdered his husband via sneezing too hard. A sad Saint-14 made everyone sad.

Osiris insisted that with a few more samples of the hive goop that had made you sick he could process it into an antibody your ghost could scan then use to fix you. But that meant waiting for your fireteam to go collect the goop required without getting sick themselves. It was taking some time to find the right hive thralls too. 

Letting out a pitiful whine you sniffled hard and took a sip of the water that had been left by your cacoon of misery. Then you heard the door open and looked up in hope that Osiris had returned with news and a cure. 

"Guardian? My love? Saint stopped by and told me you weren't feeling well." Shaxx announced and you made a noise of shame and tried to hide away in yoyr blanket cacoon. 

"Ah, I see you have decided to become one of those Eliksni hatchlings you adore so much and swaddle yourself." He said teasingly and it was the only warning you got before he was scooping you and all the blankets up into his arms with a strength that made you melt. 

"I would make sure she's facing the opposite direction if she sounds like she's going to sneeze. She already almost lit Osiris on fire." Your betrayer of a ghost warned him and you stuck an arm out to flip the bot off making Shaxx laugh. 

You were distracted by how you could feel his laugh rumble through his chest being pressed so close against it.

"Don't worry Guardian. It wouldn't be my first death to your mighty flames. Here, I brought soup for you. I thought it might help you feel a little better." He murmured and you thiught he was going to set you in the seat but instead he sat down at the table and tucked you into his lap. 

Blushing you poked your head out. "Ah there's my beauty. I was worried this nee illness had turned you into a pile of blankets." He teased as he pulled the bowl of soup closer to you so you could reach it. 

You swatted his arm with a look but your stomach rumbled at the promise of substance and you eagerly reached out for a spoonful. It was warm and savory and felt good on your abused throat. 

"Do you like it? I was worried I might have added too much pepper." He admitted and you looked up at him surprised. Pointing at the food then at him, you widened your eyes trying to ask if he really made it. 

He chuckled. "I did, though I admit I followed a recipe I got from Saladin ages ago. So I was briefly concerned I might have been making you a pot of wolf food." He said rubbing your back through the blanket as you sighed at him fondly but returned to enjoying the soup. 

By the time the bowl was empty you were warm and starting to doze as Shaxx recounted the stars of the day's crucible matches, the soft rumble of his voice and the repetitive motion on your back soothing. 

When you woke again, you found yourself in bed, tucked against Shaxx's chest feeling a little better. 

"Good news! Osiris got enough samples. I can heal you now!" Your Ghost cheered and opened up to bathe you in a ray of light. You could feel your sinuses clear and your throat heal as well as a headache you hadn't even realized tou had fade away. You smiled thankfully at your ghost but tucked yourself back against your partner to nap a little longer.

[honourablejester]

Talking to my sister, we were remembering the clapping games we used to play as kids. This was mostly in the country school, now that I think of it I don’t think they were played in the town school as much. Though that could also have been because we were older when we went there. But you know those games kids play where you have to clap a sequence while saying a rhyme? Sometimes individually, often in pairs, and then there were group games?

This would have been small town Ireland in the 90s, but the ones I remember …

'Double Double' was a really easy one for pairs. “Double double this this, double double that that, double this double that, double double this that!” You stand facing each other, and on ‘double’ you bring both fists to their fists, on ‘this’ you bring palms to palms, and on ‘that’ you bring the backs of your hands to the backs of their hands. The aim is to repeat the sequence, getting faster all the time, until somebody messes up. It was fun because you started out raising both fists at each other for ‘double double’, like you’re about to start a fist fight (which was not unknown to happen).

Then there’s ‘Under the Bam Bush’, again for pairs. I can’t remember the clap sequence for this one. I can remember most of the rhyme and the rhythm: “Under the bam bush, under the sea, boom boom boom. True love for you my darling, true love for me. When we get married, we shall have a family. A boy for you, a girl for me, how many fishes in the sea? Twelve and twelve is twenty four, kick the teacher out the door. If she knocks, give her a box, and then she’ll have the chicken pox!” I know it had a more complicated sequence, cross claps and over-unders, but I can’t for the life of me remember how it went.

We also had ‘Miss Mary Mack’, which had you alternating clapping your own hands and double high fiving your partner, and then when words repeated you repeated the high fives. “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, All dressed in black, black black, with silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back back …”

And, when you had a LOT of people together, there was always ‘Concentration’. Basically, everyone in the group got a number, one to seven or twelve or however many you had. The rhythm was two claps of your hands, two claps on your thighs, rinse and repeat, and everyone kept up this rhythm. You spoke on the hand claps, the thigh claps gave the next person time to prepare. “Concentration! (beat beat) Are you ready? (beat beat) If so! (beat beat) Let’s go! (beat beat) One to six! (beat beat) Six to three! (beat beat)” etc. It started with person one, and on your handclapped beats, you called out who had to pick up after you. They had the thigh beats to get ready, and then on their turn they had to call out a different number. People were eliminated if they didn’t answer to their number or didn’t call out a viable number on their turn. So as you went you had to keep track of which numbers were still in the game, and be ready to call them out the instant your turn came.

Concentration’s really only good if you have a big group. Like, minimum of five/six, but honestly you wanted around ten to fourteen for a proper game. It gets really boring when it’s just ‘One to two!’ ‘Two to one!’ ad nauseum at the end.

I always wonder if these are still going. They are a lot of fun.

[boguspearl]

Okay so I found this on pinterest and decided to bring it here because I think i actually might have an answer for this

Okay so I have two equally plausible theories here.

1. The book is written by none other than the everyone's favorite time traveling blue box the Tardis herself.

Okay bare with me on this the tardis is sentient we already know that but we also know that her consciousness exists across all time allowing her to know exactly what will happen and has happened and what never will happen and we already know that the tardis is the one that creates the insides of the world that is the the tardis so it might be that she made that book detailing the real course of events, and the doctor never had the heart to look into it, but it wasn't made for him, I mean think about it if the tardis was all wonky in that episode but could still protect the doctor as well as Clara who's to say she didn't lead Clara to the book to subconsciously imprint what must be done to insure time goes on the correct path, because who made everything happen in the 50th none other than Clara.

2. Clara herself wrote the book, okay that sounds even more ludicrous than the first theory I know but think about it here, Clara was split into well who knows how many of herself and she had one job in every life, make sure the doctor stays on path no matter what, now some people don't like this story line but I love it because of the build up because I mean the first two times we meet Clara the first being when the doctor is on his own Amy and Rory had just broken up boom dalek Clara suddenly appears terrifying the daleks enough to get the doctor and his friends the second is when the doctor is in his despair period but that's not what this post is, the point is that Clara remembers all of these lives she said so herself in the I believe it was in the 50th special, she said she faintly remembers them all, so who's to say that after the event of her death and resurrection she wrote said book and put it in the tardis which just by the way she had before the doctor because she's the one who told the doctor to take our lovable blue box in the first place who's to say Clara didn't place it in the library and the tardis hid it until it was the right time.

Or this is all the delusional rants of a doctor who fan and the answer is simply that the doctor wrote it in a time of self inflicted pain.